


With a Side of Rust

by blueskyscribe



Series: Law, Say the Gardeners, Is the Sun [5]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 18:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 49,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueskyscribe/pseuds/blueskyscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Volkswagen Bugs?  Pontiac <em>Azteks?</em>  Knock Out is determined to find better options for the newest generation of Cybertronians.</p><p>By any means necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

"Do I _look_ like Volkswagen Beetle?"

Not words that Agent Fowler would normally have found alarming.  But then he didn't usually hear them from a towering robot with glowing red eyes and five foot long claws, either.  This warehouse had been designed to account for the size difference when he met with Ratchet or visiting bots—a desk, chair, and filing cabinet had been set on a wide, elevated platform, looking incongruous.  Now, with Knock Out leaning over the railing, almost face- to-face with him, he wondered if it had been such a good idea.

"Do I _look_ like a station wagon? A minivan?" Knock Out persisted with that sarcastic tilt to his mouth.  "Do I look like an _Aztek?"_

"Not really.  Try gluing some feathers on your head and ask me again," Agent Fowler said.  "Look, if you don't like what we gave you—"

The former Decepticon turned around, a hand on his hip.  "Smokescreen, how would you describe the automotive models our human _friends_ at Unit E have so _generously_ offered us?"

Smokescreen looked up from the handheld game he was playing.  "They pretty much suck.  Sorry, Agent Fowler."

"Don't apologize to him," Knock Out instructed his fellow Cybertronian, glaring at the human.  "He's the one who insulted us with that scrap.  Practically an act of war, if you ask _me."_

"Are you serious?!  Do you know how many _strings_ I had to pull to get you—"  Agent Fowler grabbed a piece of paper off his desk and read:  "Two motorcycles, ten cars, ten jet planes, three helicopters, six flash drives—okay, the flash drives actually weren't a problem—two unmanned drones, three tanks, a Segway, a hot air balloon, an ambulance, a bus, and on and on and on! Including _a space shuttle!_   Do you know how much a space shuttle _costs?_   We're talking billions of dollars!  With a capital B that rhymes with P that stands for pleading!  Pleading with everyone from General Bryce to the Pentagon to authorize the funds! _"_

Knock Out half closed his optics, entirely unsympathetic. "What good would your billions of little green slips of paper be if your planet had been destroyed?  You owe us.  You owe us _everything._ "

 _"Really._   'Cause if I recall correctly _you_ were on the side trying to snuff us.  I owe you?  For what, getting tossed in your _trunk_ that one time?"

"You owe my _team,"_ Knock Out said grandly, gesturing at Smokescreen, the only Autobot in the vicinity.

"You tell 'em, K.O.," Smokescreen said without looking up from his game.

"Anyway, this isn't about _me,_ this is about future generations of Cybertronians.  Future generations who deserve an alt mode better than your hilariously misguided offerings.  A Hummer?  Really?"

"Look, we just grabbed what we found on sale at second-hand lots—and what's wrong with the Hummer?  I thought you'd like it."

"First, please refrain from using foul language like 'second-hand lots' in my presence.  Second, a Hummer is not a proper automobile, it's a _box_ with wheels on the corners.  Third, I am amazed that you thought it was appropriate to dump a gas-guzzler on us after an energy shortage nearly wiped out our race.  Very sensitive."

"It takes a hell of a lot less energy than the _space shuttle!"_

Knock Out closed his eyes and sighed in exasperation.  "Shuttle protoforms _need_ a shuttle to model their alternate mode off of.  Smaller aerials need planes or helicopters.  Grounders need cars or tanks.  We're still trying to come up with something for our beast protoforms now that our native fauna is extinct—but that's not the point.  The point is . . . Smokescreen, tell our human friend the point."

"That Pontiac Aztek is fraggin' hideous.  Like, seriously, it hurt my optics."

 _"Exactly._   As a medic, I can tell you that the first Aztek-based Cybertronian I see is getting put out of its misery."

"C'mooon Knock Out, don't say stuff like that.  You're gonna get in trouble."

"Ohhhh, very well," the former Decepticon conceded with a wave of his hand.  "I wouldn't _really.”_   After a pause he added, "Because they would off themselves before I had the chance."

"What exactly," Agent Fowler ground out over the headache now pounding in his skull, "do you want from me?"

This was apparently the opening Knock Out had been waiting for;  he drew himself up and smiled. 

"Better automobiles for our impressionable youth, of course.  We've compiled a list.  Smokescreen.  The list."  Knock Out held out his hand, gesturing with slight movements of his fingers.  Smokescreen set something small and rectangular in his palm, which the shiny red medic then picked up by the corner, pinched between two claws, and dropped in front of Fowler.

"A car dealer's catalogue," the special agent said, opening it.

"We've circled the cars that fit our needs," Knock Out informed him.

"Uh huh . . . uh huh . . . yep."  Agent Fowler flipped through the pages.  "Just like I thought.  Every luxury sports car on the market."

"Except the Lamborghini Veneno," Knock Out said.

"Why not the—?"

He studied his claws. "Too pretentious."

"Look.  Knock Out."  Fowler massaged his temples.  "By the time we got all the other stuff, our budget had dried up.  We got what we did 'cause we found good deals.  The cars _you_ like?  There's a reason they're called _luxury_ sports cars.  That's code for 'ridiculously expensive.' As much as I would _love_ to help you Autobots . . . or whatever . . . out, I just don't have the money to—oh _no."_

General Bryce.  Of course he would have to choose _today._

"Well, this is a surprise."  The general eyed the two bots as he climbed the stairs.  "I didn't know you had company, Bill.   And not Ratchet, either."

"Uh, yes.  It's an impromptu meeting to . . . further human-Cybertronian relations, sir.   This is Knock Out.  That's Smokescreen.  Bots, this is General Bryce."

"Hey."  Smokescreen glanced up briefly.

"Charmed," Knock Out said without interest.

"Ah, yes.  The reckless one and the turncoat."

"Hey!" Smokescreen finally wrenched free of the game's hold, staring indignantly from Bryce to Fowler. Knock Out now looked _very_ interested, in a way that made Fowler supremely uncomfortable.

"And here I thought _I_ was the reckless one," Knock Out smiled, the tips of his fingers pressing against his cherry red chassis.  "How _disappointing."_

"Hmm."  Bryce eyed him like he thought he was _something,_ all right.  "I've heard of you.  You're the other medic, right?"

"That's right."

"They say you're good."

Knock Out's eyebrows rose a little;  surprise and gratitude chased briefly across his face before his well-polished features before they settled into a more usual expression: arrogance with a side order of cocky. 

"I'm the _best_. _"_

"Good, good. We've been looking for a good source of information about Cybertronian biology."

" . . . oh?" Down went the optic ridges.  "And Ratchet hasn't been of any help, hmm?  Strange.  He _is_ a medic as well."

"Ratchet," Bryce said, rocking on his heels, "doesn't seem to appreciate how important this intel is for national security."  
  
 _"Which_ nation's security, again?"

Bryce blinked.  "The United States', naturally."

"Oh naturally, yes.  Is _that_ the one we're in, Smokescreen?" Knock Out turned to his companion.  "I thought we were in Canada."

"Uh, no, it's America."

"The United States, he said."

"Well, they're kinda the same thing."

"How informative.  How very, very, very informative.  Do go on, human.  I am simply _agog_ to know what aspects of Cybertronian biology you're interested in."

"Everything.  Basic physiology, nervous system, weaponry . . . " Bryce unconsciously rubbed his hands together.

Knock Out's eyes narrowed. "All fascinating topics.  But I'm afraid I can't help.  I thought this was Canada.  But seeing as it's not—"

General Bryce's eyes narrowed.  "Are you mocking me, robot?"

 _"Moi?_   Primus forbid."

The flippant response earned a scowl from Bryce.  "I expect a degree of cooperation from you, soldier.  Not to mention gratitude, considering your organization's recent requests."

"Ah, but I'm not a soldier, and I'm especially not _your_ soldier. As for gratitude, weeeell, not to put too fine a _point_ on it," Knock Out studied his claws before scything them apart with a faint _shhinnk_ , "we could take what we need if we felt like it, couldn't we?"

Well, so much for furthering human-Cybertronian relations, Agent Fowler thought.  It had been nice while it lasted.

"Uh, K.O. . . ." Smokescreen tentatively set a hand on Knock Out's arm.  The red sports car shrugged it off without looking at him.

 _"However,_ I know that won't be necessary since you fleshies surely remember how we—the Autobots—saved you from—"  He paused, perhaps trying to thinking of an incident that didn't implicate him as an ex-Decepticon.  "Unicron.  We saved you from Unicron."

"Again with the unicorn thing?  Listen—"

Knock Out dropped his facade of cordiality with a sneer. "No, _you_ listen, skinjob—"

"Maybe you'd both like to listen," Ratchet said from across the room, arms crossed, "to some sense."

Knock Out froze for just an instant before turning, smiling brightly.  "Hellooo, esteemed colleague!"

"Can I have a word with you outside," Ratchet raised an eyebrow, "esteemed colleague?"


	2. Chapter 2

Ratchet waited until Knock Out—and Smokescreen, trailing after them—were out of earshot of the warehouse before he spoke.

"Knock Out."  Ratchet crossed his arms.  _"What_ are you doing here?"

"What are any of us doing here, Ratchet?  One of the grand mysteries of life, isn't it?"

"Let me be more specific." Ratchet's voice rose on the last word. "What were you doing sneaking out to harass Agent Fowler when I _thought_ you were watching the 'double creature-feature'?"

"Harass?  Oh, I'm hurt." Knock Out gave a little pout.  "What's wrong with having a spirited discussion?"

"A spirited discussion with a human, after I _specifically told you_ that you weren't to have contact with organic lifeforms without Auto—without supervision!"

"Ah, but I _had_ supervision, old-timer."  Knock Out waggled a finger. "Smokescreen here was keeping a close and vigilant eye on me, weren't you, Smokey?" 

Knock Out received no answer; Smokescreen's attention was wholly focused the glowing screen in front of him, his thumbs tapping like lightning.  Knock Out wrenched the game out of Smokescreen's servos and used it to deliver a solid smack to the back of his head.

"Knock Ouuut, what the heck!  I was LEVELLING!"

"Tell the good doctor what a friendly, sweet, _biddable_ Autoboticon I've been and you'll get it back.  Ah-ah!" he admonished as Smokescreen lunged.  Knock Out was the smaller of the two, but he managed to stave off his opponent by shoving a hand over his face and holding him at arm's length while hoisting the device out of reach.

"Oh yes, _this_ fills me with confidence," Ratchet said sarcastically, watching them wrestle for control.  "Oh yes."

Locking his elbow around Knock Out's arm ("Watch the _paint!")_ , Smokescreen reclaimed the game.  Unfortunately one of them had hit the off button during the scuffle.  The blue and yellow Autobot glared at it, then transferred his glare to Ratchet.

"What's the big _deal?_   Knock Out just wanted to talk to Fowler, and that's what he did."

"There's talking and there's nearly causing an interstellar incident!"

"Oh, right.  The humans will load up their scary space shuttles and invade us," the shiny red medic scoffed, tilting his arm this way and that as he checked for scrapes. "It will only take them a couple _billion_ years to reach us given their level of technology."

"Not. the point," Ratchet ground out.  "You burst in there and _insulted_ one of our closest human allies after they have been more than generous—"

"Whoa, put it in neutral, Doc."  Smokescreen held up his hands.  "Totally respect your P.O.V. and maybe Knock Out could've phrased it nicer but, you know what?  _He's right."_

"Oh, I never get tired of hearing those words," murmured Knock Out, crossing his arms in triumph.

"Excuse me?  You think that after procuring the—"

"—billion trillion dollar space shuttle, blah blah blah, I know.  That's awesome, right?   But it seems like they could've set aside a little chunk of that billion trillion for a couple cars that can go more than fifty miles per hour and aren't as ugly as Unicron's aft."

"Smokescreen . . ."

"I know, I know.  'Smokescreen! You're exaggerating!'  Okay, I am, I admit it.  But I _did_ help save this planet, and our planet, and . . ."  He crossed his arms, his twitching doors betraying his nerves. "I'd really like it if some of the new generation kinda . . . looked like me.  Y'know?"

Ratchet's scowl shifted into something softer.  The medic put a hand on the younger bot's arm, his normally gruff voice infused with a tremor of sparkfelt emotion. "Smokescreen . . ."

"Besides, we're gonna need _way_ more racers if we want to start a league."

The scowl returned.  "Smokescreen, get back to base before I turn you into a blue and yellow _toaster oven!_   And that goes for you too, Knock Out!"

"Nice job, idiot!" Knock Out snarled, aiming another slap at the rookie's head.

"What!  What'd I _say?"_

* * *

The warehouse that served as the Autobots' Earth headquarters—really only home to Ratchet these days—was only a short distance away from Agent Fowler's "Autobot office".  As Ratchet shooed the two truant bots inside, he was relieved to see that the others hadn't even noticed they'd been gone.  The catwalk railing still creaked under Bulkhead's weight as he leaned forward, watching black-and-white zombies stagger towards a black-and-white house.  Jack had taken over both the recliner and the bowl of popcorn. Raf had fallen asleep on the arm of the couch, but Miko hunched forward eagerly at the other end.   She barely glanced away from the screen as Bulkhead carefully reached out to arrange a blanket around her shoulders, though she did reach up to absently pat his huge fingers.

Bulkhead, at least, could be relied upon, Ratchet thought.  True, sometimes that meant "relied upon to break whatever was most important" or "relied upon not to think things through", but still . . . reliable. Maybe tomorrow he could ask the green Autobot to help him smooth things over with Bryce and apologize to Fowler. Humans were often taken aback by Bulkhead's earnestness and reluctant to hurt his feelings, Ratchet found.

"Aren't you going to watch the movie?" the orange and white medic asked Knock Out, who was hanging back by the computer terminal.  "Or did you only come here to terrorize humans with your sidekick?"

"I am _not_ his sidekick," Smokescreen complained.

Knock Out quelled him with an impatient gesture.  "I watched the earlier one, you know I did.  _Frankenstein._ 'It's alive!'" His lips gave a quirk of amusement for no reason Ratchet could discern.  "But I don't watch zombie movies," he said firmly. Fervently, even.

"Why not?  They're awesome."  Smokescreen let one shoulder drop, pulling the other high as he shambled around in a circle, clawing at the air.  "I want to eat your braaains."

The ruby red medic glared at him.  _"No."_

"Smokescreen, would you _please_ shift it down a notch?  And you—next time _tell me_ before you go haring off."

"Why, so _you_ can be my escort?  Ha!  You can't keep up with me."

"Tonight you were only a few buildings away and I _believe_ my decrepit old gears could've handled that," Ratchet said drily.  "Although if you want to stay _far away_ from Fowler and Bryce in the future, that's fine by me."

"Bryce."  Knock Out rolled the name out thoughtfully, studying the ceiling.  "Bryce."  His optics swung suddenly towards Ratchet, sharp as a blade.  "You haven't been _telling him_ anything, have you?  About us.  Our kind."

"Of course not," Ratchet said, drawing himself up.  "I'm not a _fool."_

"No.  You're not." Knock Out relaxed marginally.  "All right, then.  But I still want those sports cars."

"And I want a new titanium class electron magnifier, but that's not happening either!" Ratchet's tone went right back to its default setting, caustic.

"Aw, Raaaatch!" Smokescreen pleaded.

"NO.  If you ask me, we have enough luxury models.  In fact, I find myself positively _relieved_ that we won't be adding any more member to this . . . this cabal of irresponsibility."

"Oh, wow.  Really?  Really, Ratchet?"  Smokescreen crossed his arms.  "'Cause all sports cars are flighty, right?   Just like all tanks are dumb and all helicopters are psycho?"

The Autobot medic snorted. "My statement was based on potential, available role models—present company NOT excepted—not on frame type."

"Personal insults," the rookie groused. "Yeah, that's waaay better."  Smokescreen paused as he received a private text message from Knock Out.  The red mech was smirking—always good sign.  Or a bad one, depending on your point of view.  The message was brief.

_::Hush, newspark. The cabal meets tomorrow.::_


	3. Chapter 3

Bumblebee's scouting missions sometimes lasted weeks—mapping out the grueling Cylihex Canyons had taken upwards of a month, actually—and he inevitably came back with a miscalibrated joint or a jammed axle.  Even if he escaped direct injury, his vents were always clogged with dust.

Today, as the ruins of Praxus reared on the horizon, he sent two messages.

To the mainframe, for the benefit of whoever happened to be on monitor duty:  _::This is your friendly neighborhood Bumblebee returning from a scintillating survey of the Palisade Plateaus, ready to report amazing sights such as dirt! Debris! And far too many plants with titanium thorns!_

To Knock Out:  :: _I'm back!::_

The medic's reply was succinct.  _::About time.::_  

Pitted with holes and laced with cracks, the byways leading into Praxus were no easy drive, especially not for a low-slung sports car.  But it was Bumblebee's first _real_ drive in two and a half weeks, and to him it was heaven.

The city rose and sank out of view as a series of hills tested Bumblebee's engine.  By the time he reached the long straightaway leading into the heart of Praxus, a tiny speck of red was speeding towards him, accompanied by the thrum of an engine.  With their combined speed, it didn't take long for the red sports car to reach him.  Knock Out drove past the black and yellow Urbana, transformed and swirled in one fluid movement, and slipped back into vehicle mode without slowing down.

"Still showing off, I see," Bumblebee said as the Aston Martin pulled up beside him, matching his speed.  "You _could've_ just made a U-turn."

"Shut up and drive, Bug."

They took an off-ramp and looped around the city instead of heading straight in, reveling in the warmth of the road under their treads, the dust that spun and roiled behind them, the breeze whipping over their windscreens, the sunlight that gleamed in blinding swells on Knock Out's well-polished hood in contrast to the golden glow of sunlight on the textured dust coating Bumblebee's chassis.   Bumblebee revved his engine a few times, pulling ahead provocatively, but Knock Out refused to be drawn into a race.  ("You're drifting to the left. I don't race with cripples.")  So they just drove.

Eventually Knock Out broke the companionable silence, filling in the black and yellow Autobot with the latest news.  Updates on the development of the pre-forms, hopefully soon to become viable protoforms. (Faster development than expected.) Who was flirting, 'facing, and otherwise making a spectacle of themselves.  (Many, many theories, more salacious than accurate.)  The latest info on Shockwave and Starscream. (None.)  Wheeljack's latest crazy invention. (The transmatter duplicator.) The damage caused by the explosion of Wheeljack's latest crazy invention. (Loss of most of the west wall of his laboratory, which had turned out to be load-bearing.)  What Bulkhead was busy constructing. (A building to replace the one that had suddenly lost a load-bearing wall.)  Whom Ultra Magnus was currently the most peeved with.  (Wheeljack.)

"Although I'm a close second," Knock Out said airily, "and hope to unseat Wheeljack for that honor any day now."

"I'd expect nothing less from you, Knock Out, and I'm sure Ultra Magnus will be proud that you're giving it your all," Bumblebee said, door handles flexing in amusement.  "Any new arrivals yet?"

"You mean starships? Other Cybertronians?  _No."_   Knock Out heaved the last word out in a petulant sigh.  "Or if there are, they haven't made contact.  I know space is _big,_ but you'd think more ships would have warp drives."

"Well, they take a lot of energy.  I'm sure _someone_ will arrive soon.  They have to, right?"

"Hrrrm, hopefully."  Knock Out transformed as they reached the crest of a hill.  Bumblebee followed suit. The remains of Praxus' towers and skyscrapers stood like skeletons, but somewhere in the midst of them was their own little crazy, functional headquarters.  Their home.

"Here." Knock Out tossed him a polishing rag.  "You're filthy."

"Thanks for pointing that out, I hadn't noticed.  Strangely enough, there weren't any washracks or oil baths out in the middle of nowhere.  Weird, right?"  Despite the banter, it was a relief to scrub the grime off his finish.

"You're all scratched up," Knock Out said, sounding more disapproving than sympathetic.  And then, abruptly, "Fowler isn't giving us any racing frames."

Bumblebee paused in his attempts to clean out his elbow joint.  Knock Out had actually called Agent Fowler by name rather than sarcastically referring to him as "our human _friend_ at Unit E."  This was _serious._  "But they did provide _some_ cars, right?"

Knock Out made a restless sound, crossing his arms.  "No sports models," he repeated. He looked squarely at Bumblebee, his red irises barely visible as the sunset reflected in his optics.  "We're meeting tonight."

"What, you and Agent Fowler?"

"Nooo, that would just be ridiculous, now wouldn't it?  Also, I already tried that," he admitted.  "No.  We.  Smokescreen. Myself.  You."  The last word was just a little bit tentative, not _quite_ a question.

Bumblebee hesitated.  Racing alt modes were fabulously impractical at the best of times, but especially on a planet which currently had only one functional loop of roads, the one they were standing on.  Bulkhead had fixed it up after Smokescreen started to go completely stir-crazy.  But if a developing protoform ached for the sleek lines, the glory of acceleration, the joy of a road spinning away under friction-heated tires . . . Well, why not?  Their species had _tried_ "practical" and ended up with the caste system.

"All right," said Bumblebee.  "So where are we meeting?"

Some of the tension ebbed out of the medic's shoulders.  "I'll send you the coordinates.  _After_ I give you a full tune up.  Did you know one of your tail-lights is out? And stop scrubbing your elbow, Bug, it's only driving the dirt further in."

"I missed you, too." Bumblebee tossed the crumpled cloth at him.

Snorting, Knock Out picked it up between the tips of two fingers, holding it as far away from his chassis as possible as though the dirt was contagious.  "Right, whatever.  If you can stop _oozing_ your Autobot emotions at me for two seconds, we can go back."

Bumblebee smiled and reached for him.

After a time, they went back.

* * *

Some hours later, Knock Out looked up as Bumblebee entered an almost intact room in one of the ruins near the base. "Ah, there you are! Late, tsk tsk!"

"Knock Out, you didn't touch my game-pad, did you?  It's broken."

"Definitely _not."_

"Me neither!" added Smokescreen.

Bumblebee looked from one to the other, optics narrowing in suspicion. "You do realize this is irreplaceable, right?  It's pre-War and I can't just get another because, oh, _our planet is a festering ruin."_

"A-hem," Knock Out coughed into his fist.  "Focus, Bee, focus.  This is important."  He tapped something narrow and silver on the tabletop.  "I hereby call the first meeting of the Cabal of Irresponsibility to order!"

"The _what?_   The _what_ now?  And what are you holding?"

"A laser scalpel.  We don't have a gavel."

"Why, exactly, are we the Cabal of Irresponsibility?"

"It's catchy.  It holds the attention.  And most importantly, it will drive Ratchet crazy.  So.  Any objections?  Other suggestions?"

Smokescreen raised his hand.  "Actually, I was thinking we could call ourselves—"

"No.  All right, first item on our agenda."  Knock Out lowered his datapad sharply as a fourth bot entered the room at a leisurely saunter.  "Well . . . Wheeljack! This is a SURPRISE."

"Hey, Red."  The ex-Wrecker dropped into a chair, slouching with one arm over the back of it.  "Smokey said we're organizing a club or something."

"It's not a club, it's a _cabal._   A _top secret_ cabal."

Smokescreen held his hands up to ward off the medic's venomous stare. "C'mon, Knock, cut it with the creepy Decepticon intimidation tactics.  We're sports cars, he's a sports car . . ."

 _"Is_ he?" Knock Out demanded, his optics flicking up and down Wheeljack in judgment.  "Or is he a bot who merely turns _into_ a sports car?"

"Didn't realize I needed to bring my credentials," Wheeljack said, swinging his feet onto the table.

"Knock Out, he's already here, so—"

"What's your top speed?" Knock Out shot out.

"Two hundred miles, give or take."  Wheeljack looked either bland or amused, it was hard to tell.

"Zero to sixty?"

"Three point three seconds."

"Horsepower?"

"Over five hundred mustangs under the hood.  Good enough, Red?"

"Hrrrnnn."  Knock Out crossed his arms.  _"Fine,_ you're in.  But don't go blabbing to the Wreckers or your two-wheeler sparkmate about it."

"She's _not_ my sparkmate—"

"Ha!  I've heard _that_ one before!"

"—and I'm not a narc.  Lips are sealed."

"Gooood."  Knock Out picked up his datapad.  "All right, first order of business—election of officers."

"That seems . . . weirdly formal," Bumblebee said.

"Not at all.  Even a small organization works best if everyone's roles are clearly defined.  How do you think Megatron managed for so long?"

"Yeah, and how'd that work out for him?"

" . . . moving _on!_   First post:  president."

"Let me guess," snorted Smokescreen.  "You want it to be you."

"Not at all.  I've never been comfortable in command posts."  Knock Out leaned back in his chair.  "Actually, Smokescreen, I would like to nominate you."

"Whoa—seriously?"

"Seriously."  Knock Out laced his fingers together.  "Would anyone care to second the nomination?"

"ME!" Smokescreen's hand shot into the air.

"You—No, you can't nominate yourself.  Anyone _else?"_   Knock Out nudged Bumblebee's elbow.

"Um.  Sure." 

"Nomination proposed and seconded!  All in favor?"  Three hands rose—Smokescreen's, rapidly; Bumblebee's, hesitantly; Knock Out's confidently.  The red mech looked pointedly at Wheeljack, but he continued to lounge.  He did, however, raise an eyebrow.

"Are we gonna go through this for every single bot?"

"Well, there's only three of us," Knock Out pointed out.  "Or four, rather."  He frowned suddenly at his data pad, whipping out a stylus and scribbling.

"C'mon Wheeljack, get into the spirit of things.  It's fun!"  Smokescreen looped an arm around the Wrecker's shoulder.

"Shooting targets is fun.  Bureaucracy is torture."

"All _right,"_ Knock Out groused, "to satisfy our new, _unasked for_ member, I'll just read off my suggestions.  Everyone happy?  Wheeljack?  Are you happy?"

"Ecstatic."

"Smokescreen - President.  As we've already established.  Bumblebee - Special Operations or, if you want to get fancy, 'Spec Ops'.  Anything involving gathering information, spying, or sneaking is your responsibility."

"Cool."

"Any objections?  No?  Moving on.  Wheeljack, despite the fact that you gave me less than thirty seconds notice, I've thought of something for you—Research and Development."

"Sounds like a desk job."

"Right.  A desk on which you're building things that will explode."

"I'm liking this club already."

"Good.  That leaves me.  Second-in-Command, Science Officer, and Secretary of Internal Affairs."

There was a brief, thoughtful silence.

"Isn't Second-in-Command more of a military thing?  I mean, if Smokescreen's president, shouldn't you be vice-president?"

"More of a medic than a scientist, aren't you, Red?  Y'know, I was actually in the Autobot Science Division for a while . . ."

"How come you get three titles and rest of us only get one?  And 'Secretary of Internal Affairs', what does that even mean?"

"It means I keep you delinquents in line!" Knock Out snapped, slamming down his datapad.  "Oh, fine, FINE, I'll be Vice-President and Secretary of . . . just being SECRETARY."

Another pause.

"He _does_ have really nice handwriting," Bumblebee acknowledged.

 _"Thank_ you.  Now first off, I thought we could—"

"Aw, scrap." Smokescreen guilty as his communicator started beeping.  "Sorry, K.O., I gotta head out.  I just remembered I'm supposed to be on monitor duty."

"Nothing like a call from Ultra Magnus to jog the memory," Bumblebee said cheerfully.

Wheeljack waved as Smokescreen sped out.  "See ya, El Presidente."

"Really?  During our first meeting?"  Knock Out complained.

Bumblebee raised his hand.  "Oh!  I have a proposal, Mr. Vice-President!"

"The floor recognizes our Special Ops agent," Knock Out said, lacing his fingers together.

"Right, I was thinking that we could launch a special investigation into who _broke my game-pad."_

Knock Out clicked the ends of his index fingers together. "You know what, I just realized I need to transcribe my notes." Knock Out rapped the laser scalpel against the table. "Meeting adjourned."

"Are you _sure,_ Mr. Vice-President?  Because I'm sure with our combined skills and knowledge, we could get to the bottom of—"

"MEETING ADJOURNED!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've seen Predacons Rising, you'll note that there's some canon divergence right near the end. (You will know it when you see it.) I went back and forth on whether I wanted to totally adhere to the canon or not; in the end I went with "not", for logistical reasons and because of a few ideas for future stories.
> 
> MOST of "Predacons Rising" still fits in with the canon of this fic, though, and is considered to have happened. I'll discuss this further in a week or so, once I feel confident that most people who want to watch "Predacons Rising" have had a chance to do so.

"Now _that's_ what I call a sweet set of wheels.  Look at that profile . . ."

"Pfft, with that ridiculous spoiler on the back?  I don't think so.  But check out this Bentley.  Va-vroom!"

"Not bad, kid, but gimme a Ferrari any day of the week.  Yeah . . . a low, sleek body, nice slim pair of headlights . . ."

"What is it with you and low clearance, Wheeljack?"

"He just wants someone with an alt shorter than his."

"Hush now, newsparks, listen to your elders and betters.  A nice chassis is all well and good, but accessories make the auto.  A custom paint job, a quad of sweet rims, mmm . . ."

The second meeting of the Cabal of Irresponsibility was in full swing, although the Committee for the Procurement of Sports Cars (consisting of all four founding members) had diverged from its stated goal of determining exactly which cars they wanted to procure.  The committee's _new_ goal, apparently, was to lounge around in their secret base ("NOT a clubhouse," Knock Out had sternly corrected Wheeljack) ogling the chassis of Earth models and stealing car magazines from one another.

That wasn't to say that they hadn't achieved _anything_ , though.  They'd "liberated" a few more chairs from Autobot base for their use, had approved the President's proposal that they create a secret handshake, had _also_ approved the Vice-President-and-Secretary's proposal that they set up a secret comm line, and had created the Secrets and Means Committee.

"Y'know, I've been thinking of getting a new paint job," Smokescreen said.  "Maybe something with flames . . ."

"But everyone does flames, Smokescreen," Bumblebee pointed out.

"Uh, _yeah,_ because they're awesome!" He turned a page.  "So how're we gonna get these, again?"

"Hmm?" Knock Out tore his attention away from a delightfully _sassy_ Maserati convertible.  "Oh, right.  The floor is now open to discussion."  He set the magazine aside (but not before folding down the corner of the page).

"If Unit E won't give us sports cars, maybe we can get them from some other humans," Smokescreen suggested.  "Like, as a donation. We _did_ save their planet."

"But humanity doesn't even know about us," Bumblebee pointed out.

"And that's the way it should stay," Knock Out said firmly.  "But some of them know already.  What about that human femme?"

"You mean June Darby?" Wheeljack leaned back in his chair.  "I get the impression that nurses don't make too many credits."

"Sad but true," Bumblebee confirmed.  "I doubt if she could even afford one sports car.  I mean, have you seen her own car?"

"Hmm." Knock Out leaned on his hand.  "Well, what about your human pet? I mean friend."

"Thanks for trying."  Bumblebee patted his arm.  "The kids have even less money.  They're dependent on their parents at that age."

"You _guys._   I just had a brainstorm," Smokescreen announced.  "We are going about this all wrong."

"Whatcha got, Smokey?" Wheeljack asked.

"Okay.  So we're talking about getting racing models to Cybertron for the protoforms, riiight?"  Collective nodding. "But what if instead of bringing the vehicles to Cybertron—here comes the brilliant part—we take the protoforms _to the vehicles?"_

Bumblebee straightened up in his chair.  "That . . . could work!  If we snuck them onto an upscale car lot in the middle of the night . . ."

He trailed away, because Wheeljack and Knock Out had finished exchanging glances and were now very clearly fighting laughter.

"Have you ever _seen_ a protoform?" Knock Out asked, highly amused.

"Not these young things," Wheeljack grinned.  "They're from the last generation."

"Ahhh, that's _right._ I always forget how young you really _are,_ Bee."  Knock Out flashed a superior smile that made Bumblebee scowl.  Smokescreen looked even more peeved.

"What, you can't believe _he's_ from the last generation of Cybertronians but you can believe that _I_ am?" he demanded.  "And what's _wrong_ with my idea?  They'd have such an incredible selection!"

"What's wrong with it," Knock Out said, "is that protoforms are skittish, not quite sapient, and impossible to control.  At least," he corrected himself, "impossible to control without being drugged into a stupor."

"Not quite _sapient?_   What do you mean?  I mean—they're Cybertronians!" Bumblebee objected.

"Bumblebee," Wheeljack said, "what's your very first memory?"

"My first memory?  It's . . . I was standing on a terrace, watching these two bots talking on the street below me.  A big blocky red bot and a black and white one."

"And were you a protoform?"

The black and yellow mech frowned.  "No, I had my alt already.  I don't remember being a protoform at all."

"Right.  Nobody remembers their protoform stage.  Whatever's goin' on in their processors, it gets overwritten as they learn.  About other Cybertronians.  About how fire is hot.  About what's good to eat and what ain't.  About life."

"So . . . they're kind of like human toddlers?" Bumblebee asked.

"No, no," Knock Out interjected, waving a hand.  "They don't go around spewing out cutesy little phrases.  They're ignorant, impossible to reason with, and have no sense of societal niceties."

"But . . . that's what . . . Never mind."  Most of Knock Out's knowledge of humanity came from television;  Bumblebee tactfully let the subject drop.

"And my, oh my," the red mech went on, smirking, "it did make for some _interesting_ times when one of the _larger_ newsparks wandered into the market before learning you have to _pay_ for the goods."

Smokescreen blinked.  "What did the shopkeepers—venders?—do when that happened?"

"Gave them the stuff," Wheeljack answered . . . at the same time that Knock Out said, "Gave them a few good punches."

The two older bots eyed each other, then Knock Out turned back to Smokescreen.  "Well, let's just say newsparks were given a _great_ deal more leeway than a mature bot would get.  Punching qualifies as leeway," he added, giving Wheeljack a defiant look, "in places where shooting thieves was the common practice."

"That's so fragged up."

"No one asked you.  _Getting back on topic,_ herding a horde of uncontrollable protoforms through a space bridge to Earth seems to me to be an idea with certain _flaws_.  Besides," he added briskly, "imprinting on Earth automobiles is one thing, but I don't want them imprinting on Earth _culture._   Not at that stage of development."

"Fiiiine," Smokescreen sighed. "So what do we do?"

"Y'know, there's more ways to get cars than with money—" Wheeljack began.

"Are we talking about bridging in and helping ourselves?" Knock Out suggested with a certain amount of hope in his voice.

"Knock Out, that's _stealing,"_ Bumblebee said, crossing his arms.

 _"Debatable,_ and anyway it's for a good cause."

"Okay, let's have a vote. All in favor of taking vehicles from humans without payment?  All against? Uh huh . . . uh huh.  Mr. Secretary, please let the minutes show that the vote was three-to-one against, and that we should never bring up that suggestion again."

Knock Out grumbled under his breath, but he did update the minutes.

"So like I was saying before Red cut in," Wheeljack said, unperturbed, "the main problem is that Agent Fowler can't get the money together, right?  But if we offer something good enough, his superiors will cough up the dough."

"Offer something?  Like what?" Smokescreen asked.

"I can build something.  Like, I dunno, munitions—"

"Given them our _weapons?_   Are you _insane?"_

"Relax, Red.  Doesn't have to be weapons, it could be a new kind of energy converter or—"

"No.  NO.  We are not giving _humans_ any of our tech!" Bumblebee put a hand on Knock Out's arm; he shook it off as his voice lowered to a hiss. "Not now, not ever!" 

Smokescreen grinned out of nerves rather than mirth, at the former Decepticon's sudden vitriol.  "C'mon, Knock . . . You get along with humans.  Miko, Raf . . ."

"Two out of seven billion," he snapped.  "Most of them ready and willing to turn on us.  Most of them thinking we're about a sentient as a . . . a socket wrench."

"Citation needed," Smokescreen said under his breath.

 _"What?"_  

Confronted by a piercing red glare, Smokescreen faltered.  "It's, uh, it's this thing you say because . . . I don't know why, it's just something people say."

"Something _humans_ say, you mean," Knock Out sneered, but his tone was less caustic than before.

"I'm not sayin' we should send our blueprints to every human out there," Wheeljack said patiently. "Just to people we trust.  Ones we know won't pass 'em around.  It'll be top-secret."

"Wheeljack."  Knock Out shuttered his optics, dragging his hands down his face in a gesture of exhaustion before opening his eyes.  "How many 'top-secret' projects, Autobot or Decepticon, do you think were _actually_ top-secret by the end of the war?"

Wheeljack was silent a moment.  "All right, tradin' tech is out.  Where's that leave us?"

"Extremely frustrated," Knock Out grumbled, flopping back in his chair. 

"Well, what about us?" Bumblebee suggested after a moment's silence.  "We all have sports car alts.  And that's how protoforms are really _meant_ to model their own mode, right?  Imprinting off other Cybertronians.  If we set up shifts . . ."

"Ye-eees, but, ah, I really do need to be present when other bots are at the hot spot. To supervise. I _am_ sort of . . . responsible for them, as your medic."    

He looked slightly embarrassed about it.  He didn't bring up the fact that he wasn't crazy—that none of them were crazy—about sharing their alt modes with a slew of other bots.  Uniqueness was highly valued in Cybertronian society.

"Still, that's not a _bad_ idea, and perhaps if we went out there frequently enough—ah, hang on.  I'm getting a comm."  He scowled suddenly.  "It's from _Magnus._   'Be in my office, ten minutes.'  Wonderful."  He glared around at them.  "Which one of you _tattled,_ if I might ask?"

"Don't look at me," Wheeljack said.  "Anyway, what can he complain about?  All we've been doin' so far is talking.  No harm in that, right? It's not against the rules."

"Anything Ultra Magnus doesn't like is 'against the rules.'  I think he makes them up as he goes along," Knock Out grumbled.  But the Wrecker's words did give him hope.  He could play off the Cabal as a little sports car appreciation club if he had to.  And given the amount of time they'd spent on those magazines, that was almost the truth.  Probably he was just in for a lecture on shirking or something.

"Well, with your permission, Mr. President—"

"President Smokescreen.  Call me President Smokescreen."

"With your permission, President Smokescreen, I think we can declare the meeting adj—"

"Call me President Smokescreen, Supreme Emperor of Awesome."

" . . . no."

"Aw, come on! Pleeease?"

"Smokescreen, that is a completely ridiculous—hang on, another comm."  Knock Out checked it.  For a second his expression was blank, then he was pushing himself to his pedes and hurrying for the door.  "Well, sayonara.  I've got to get going.  Until next time."

"Uh."  Smokescreen exchanged glances with Bumblebee and Wheeljack, who looked perplexed.  "Aren't you going to adjourn the meeting?"

Knock Out turned around, grabbed the laser scalpel, and knocked it against the table.  "Meeting adjourned."  And off he streamed.

He was already rereading the second message from Magnus.

_::Be on time for once.  I don't want you to keep Optimus waiting.::_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, did you know I have [a Tumblr](http://blueskyscribe.tumblr.com/)? Mostly I reblog pictures of Transformers and announce when I've updated a chapter of something. Also feel free to ask me questions there. My Tumblr name is [blueskyscribe](http://blueskyscribe.tumblr.com/).


	5. Chapter 5

Bumblebee caught up with him before he reached Autobot HQ.  "What's going on?"

Knock Out told him.

 _"Both_ of them?" Bumblebee's eyes widened.  "What did you _do?"_

"Nothing!"  Knock Out threw his hands in the air.  "At least, nothing I can think of.  At least, nothing I can think of that was _that_ bad." 

He tried to remember when Optimus and Ultra Magnus had last teamed up to play good-cop/bad-cop.  (Or to be more accurate I'm-very-disappointed-in-you-cop/bad-cop.)  Hadn't it been—yes—when he'd snuck through the space bridge for a little street racing and had run that human off the road?  But that had been months ago.  Tending to the next generation  took up so much of his time these days, it wasn't as though he even had time to get into trouble.  Much.

"I guess I'll know more about my nefarious crimes after the meeting," Knock Out said finally, giving a light shrug.

"Want me to wait for you?"

"Ready to break down the door in my defense?  Appreciated, but no, that's okay."

"Look at the bright side,"  Bumblebee said.

"What bright side?"

"I'm thinking, I'm thinking."

"Pfft." Knock Out stopped in front of the appropriately massive door to Ultra Magnus' office.  "Here goes.  If I'm in there more than an hour, send in the Interstellar Guard."

"There isn't an Interstellar Guard anymore."

"Well, scrap."

* * *

"Commander Magnus, _sir,"_ Knock Out greeted the Second-in-Command as he breezed in, his drawl making the "sir" waver on the edge of insubordination.  "And our fearless leader."  Knock Out saluted Optimus with a flourish. "You called?"

"We wanted to talk with you, Knock Out," Optimus said in that solemn, gentle way of his.

"Have a seat, Doctor." Ultra Magnus gestured towards a chair in front of his desk.

Knock Out sat, idly wondering if the order to sit was meant to emphasize his smaller stature compared to his superior officers.  Possibly. Ultra Magnus knew how to play the game when it came to keeping his soldiers in line.  It wasn't his fault that Knock Out was a well-versed opponent.  (Optimus, of course, did not even know there was a game, let alone how to play it.)

"So. How can I help you?" Knock Out flashed a smile upward.

"We've received a report—" Ultra Magnus began, all constrained disapproval, but he instantly fell silent when Optimus started to speak. 

"I understand you visited Earth recently," he said in his calm rumble.

So  Ratchet had let the turbo-fox out of the bag.  So much for solidarity amongst the medical profession. "That's right.  For movie night."

"I'm glad you're reaching out to others, particularly the children."

"Well, you know," Knock Out said vaguely.

"I understand you also visited Agent Fowler."

"Indeed," Knock Out said lightly even as he internally winced in embarrassment.  He respected, even liked, Prime.  But being corrected by him was like being slowly beaten to death with a bag of feathers.  Give him a straightforward Magnus lecture any day.  "I thought I'd give our human friend at Unit E a visit. In the interest of furthering human-Cybertronian relations."

"A visit or a shakedown?" Ultra Magnus demanded, no longer able to keep silent.  "According to this report, you demanded more vehicles from Unit E and issued thinly veiled threats when refused."

Knock Out studied his claws.  "I promise that any threats I make in the future will be straightforward and plainspoken, to avoid confusion, sir."

"Knock Out . . . " Ultra Magnus' voice dropped an octave.

But Optimus simply sighed a little, one of those sighs that cut straight to the spark.

Knock Out abandoned the study of his nails to glare defiantly up at the two bots.  "Listen. We need more frame-types so I took a chance and asked for them.  It didn't pan out, but it was worth a shot."

"Regardless of the legitimacy of your concerns," Optimus said carefully—honestly, there were times when Knock Out understood why Megatron had spent millennia trying to get under Prime's plating, that unflinching calm was downright annoying at times—"Your conduct alarmed General Bryce."

"I'm sorry he let himself become alarmed," Knock Out said by way of non-apology, his eyes drifting over to the hook that had replaced Ultra Magnus' right hand, as they sometimes did. "It was a learning experience for all parties involved, no doubt about that."

"We're sorry he feels that way too," Ultra Magnus said drily, "since he's now rethinking the entire funding situation."

"What funding situation?" Knock Out asked, still gazing at the hook.  Then realization hit and the world dropped away.  "Not for the _vehicles!_   But we _need_ those!"

"Yes," Ultra Magnus said pitilessly, "we did."

"But . . . but . . ." Knock Out clutched his helm with one hand as he made desperate little gestures with the other.

"Sit down, Doctor."

Ah, so the chair was a _test._   One which he'd failed.  Frag, he didn't even remember jumping to his feet.  Knock Out sat back down and forced a smile. A bright smile.  "All right.  Point made.  I'll apologize to General Bryce.  A sincere apology."  Sincere sounding, anyway.

"That won't be necessary," Optimus said.  "General Bryce simply needs some reassurance."

"Reassurance.  Certainly."  What did that even mean?  It didn't matter.  They needed those damn vehicles and Knock Out was going to get them, even if it meant debasing himself in front of a nasty little fleshbag.  "What kind of reassurance does our small organic ffff-friend require?"

"Simply to look around and satisfy himself, and his superiors, as to what the vehicles will be used for."

"Look around?  Around . . . around _Cybertron?"_   This time Knock Out managed not to leap to his pedes, but it was a near thing.  "Ah, forgive me, Prime, but, ah, doesn't that seem a bit _rash?_ Not to mention dangerous to the little thing, I mean the atmosphere not being compatible with the human respiratory system and all that . . ."

"General Bryce is a trained soldier and I feel confident that he will take sufficient precautions," Optimus said.

"But can we _trust_ him?" the medic asked.  As far as he was concerned, this question was rhetorical.  As far as he was concerned, the answer was a resounding no. Miserable little organic scraplet, blackmailing his way onto Cybertron. "What does Ratchet say?"

"Ratchet agrees that his cooperation is necessary," Ultra Magnus said.  "And he'll have an escort at all times."

"Not _me!"_ Knock Out recoiled.

"No, no," Optimus reassured him.  "Though I know you will do your best to make him feel welcome."

From Megatron, Pit, from _Magnus_ a statement like that could only have been an implied threat— _you WILL make him feel welcome or else—_ but coming from Optimus it had the ring of innocent sincerity.  He honestly was sure that a belligerent ex-Decepticon would treat Bryce as an honored guest.  It was at moments like these that Knock Out understood how a bot who was, by Decepticon standards, sentimental and weak, had inspired and led an army.

He swallowed.  "Well, of course, Prime.  I can't, in all honesty, say that I'm _thrilled_ about the idea, but I'll do my best."

"I knew I could rely on you, my friend," Optimus Prime beamed, and Knock Out once again found himself focusing on Magnus' hook as embarrassment surged through his systems.  If they'd _actually_ been friends, Knock Out would have told him to stop gushing his Autobot emotions all over him.  But leaders, no matter how amicable, were _not_ friends.

"Of course you can always count on me," he said. "Glad to hear I won't have to chaperone him, though."

"Frankly," Ultra Magnus took up the thread, his blue eyes angling down towards the red mech, "we don't want you anywhere near him."  Ouch.  Frank indeed.  Good old Magnus.  "You'll avoid him as much as possible, and that's an order."

"Yes, sir."  Knock Out offered the honorific without irony or sarcasm for a change, to reward the only Autobot who seemed to be aware that the chain of command existed, let alone that it was important.  Although, admittedly, this only resulted in Ultra Magnus giving him a look of deep suspicion.

"Aside from when he's at the hot spot, of course," Magnus added, "in which case you, in addition to his escort, will accompany him."

A minute can be a very short time or a very long unit of time.  In this instance, the minute of silence that followed Ultra Magnus' remark was only slightly shorter than infinity.

"What?" the medic said at last.

"That is one of the main reasons he's coming to Cybertron," Optimus explained.  "So he can confirm that we're using the vehicles for non-combative purposes."

Knock Out crossed his arms and lowered his helm to his chest, taking a deep in-vent.  "Permission to speak freely."

Optimus frowned slightly.  "I would hope that you would always feel comfortable speaking your mind, Knock Out."

The ex-Decepticon tapped one of his fingers on the silver casing of his arm.  And waited.

"Permission granted," Ultra Magnus said.

"I am not at all comfortable," Knock Out said immediately, "letting a _stranger_ near the hot spot at this _critical_ stage.  Especially not an alien."

"Knock Out, I assure you that General Bryce will be briefed fully beforehand to ensure that he doesn't accidentally—"

"I'm not worried about accidentally," Knock Out interrupted, and his voice only spiked in volume for a moment.  "I'm worried about on purpose."

Ultra Magnus' eyes narrowed.  "You're suggesting what exactly?  Sabotage?"

"I'm suggesting that Bryce's sudden, convenient attack of _nerves_ is nothing more than an excuse to collect data on us.  I only talked to him for five minutes and he was already fishing for information on our biology."

"And is that necessarily a problem?" Optimus asked.  The medic gave him such an incredulous look that he clarified, "After all, we have learned much from our human allies.  Is it so strange that they wish to learn more from us? Or about us?"

"I think," Knock Out said, his words tumbling over each other as he leaned forward, "that humanity's first instinct is to fear us, their second is to dissect us, and their third is to make weapons out of us.  And I do not want _that human_ anywhere near my charges."

"But you don't actually have any proof of ill-intent," Optimus said gently.  "And General Bryce has worked with us in the past.  Has it occurred to you that he may just be curious?"

"But . . ." The former Decepticon tried to rein himself in, hands folding into fists and his voice rising only slightly.  "But even if _he_ doesn't mean any harm, the information won't _stop_ with him, it'll be sent up the chain of command.  Whoever gets their fleshy little digits on it is going to be curious, all right, curious about how our insides fit together or which kind of plasma blast kills us most easily!" He turned to appeal to Ultra Magnus.  "Please, Commander.  _Sir._   Our first peace-time generation. How can we risk them?"

Ultra Magnus sighed.  "Because we have to, Doctor."

"You really think he won't provide the vehicles unless . . . ?"

"Precisely."

The medic's expression became bitter.  "What a dear _friend_ the little creature is, clearly."

"I promise you," Optimus said, "that we will maintain every precaution with regards to the pre-forms."

"They're almost ready to separate," the doctor muttered.  "They'll be at the protoform stage soon."

"And they will be protected as well," the Autobot leader assured him.  "We are simply glad of your cooperation."

Knock Out was silent. He had never been the burliest or strongest 'Con on the _Nemesis,_ not by a long shot, but he had managed quite nicely because he could _read_ people.  And if he'd read that human, Bryce, correctly, he wouldn't trust him as far as he could throw him.  Oh, he didn't expect Bryce to pull out a blaster and start mowing down the vulnerable sparklets, but information in the wrong hands would do a lot more danger in the long-term.  The Decepticons had had a lot of scientists who were "just curious" too.  Their curiosity had been expressed in a variety of ways that even Knock Out found unpleasant to contemplate.

"You don't have it," he said.

The two bots look at him in confusion and Ultra Magnus said, "What?"

"My cooperation.  You don't have it."

Optimus and Ultra Magnus exchanged looks. 

"You listen to me, soldier," Ultra Magnus began, and Knock Out leaned forward defiantly to meet the challenge.  Optimus hastily intervened.

"Knock Out, if you're truly not comfortable being around Bryce, of course we won't ask that of you."  Optimus had always believed that giving Knock Out plenty of space was the best way to help him acclimate.  "We will find someone else to escort him to the hot spot."

"He's not going to the hot spot," Knock Out said evenly.  "I'm not going to allow it."

Optimus stared down at the red mech with the gleaming paintjob and gleaming eyes, at a loss for how to respond.

Ultra Magnus, on the other hand, always had a response.  "Are you defying orders, soldier?"

"I'm not a soldier, I'm a medic, your medic.  And that hot spot is officially under my care.  It's _mine._   And I protect what's mine."

"I'm glad you feel such a strong connection to it and the new lives," Optimus said, and that was the truth.  It was gratifying to see the red mech motivated by something other than his vanity or his personal pleasure.  "However, I'm afraid that is not your decision to make."

"In fact, it's _gross insubordination,"_ Ultra Magnus added, disapproval radiating off of him.

 _"Really?_   I think you'll find you're wrong on both counts.  It _is_ my decision to make and it's my duty—the very opposite of insubordination.  'Medics shall act as they deem fit within the scope of care for and protection of their charges, limited only by orders originating from superiors in their own chain of command,'" Knock Out rattled off.

Magnus' jaw was so tight it looked like it might break.  "Which means you will still capitulate once we contact the 'superior in your own chain of command', namely Ratchet."

Knock Out studied his claws.  "I outrank Ratchet in this matter."

"You do not," Ultra Magnus said with great deliberateness, "outrank Ratchet in this matter or any other.  Ratchet, I will remind you, is the Chief Medical Officer.  If you think your rank from the Decepticon chain of command carries over, you are very, very wrong."

Knock Out didn't reply.  He turned his optics towards Optimus.

And Optimus had a sudden memory of those first weeks after the defeat of Unicron, when the conversations between Knock Out and the rest of Team Prime had been unfailingly polite and unfailingly careful, as everyone nonverbally broadcast how wonderful it was that they were all friends now, ha ha, and everything was just peachy and, yes, it had been exhausting and very, very awkward for everyone involved, but especially for Knock Out.  Hanging back on the periphery of every conversation or disappearing for days at a time to concentrate on healing the severely injured Ultra Magnus, he had hardly seemed the same bot who had once had a quip for every battle and, indeed, had once informed Optimus that he had "sweet rims." 

He seemed more confused by Optimus as a leader than he ever had as an enemy.  Leaders who didn't need to be saluted when they entered the room, who objected to being called "my liege" or "my lord", were clearly outside Knock Out's frame of reference.  Mostly he had avoided Prime.  So Optimus had been surprised when Knock Out actually approached him one day and asked, quite diffidently, to see a list detailing the chain of command.  

"I only know you and Commander Magnus," Knock Out had explained.  "I can't tell where anyone else _fits."_

Optimus had explained, as he once had to Ultra Magnus, that Team Prime functioned more as a family unit than as a military unit, and therefore the chain of command was largely moot.  Knock Out had looked at him for a minute, nodded, and left.  

A few days later Optimus discovered that the medic had worked around the issue by asking Bumblebee (he tended to ghost after Bumblebee, perhaps because they were almost the same size and were both sports cars) to acquire a list of the chain of command for him.

A surge of guilt had crawled through Prime's circuits when he heard that.  First, because this was clearly more important to Knock Out than he'd thought.  Second, because the former Decepticon was not even _listed_ on the rolls, and how would he feel about _that_ when he was already struggling to find his place on the team?

So Optimus had updated the list and clued in Bumblebee, who passed it along to the medic.  ("Hey, you know that file I gave you the other day?  Yeah, that was the old version, sorry about that.  This is the current one.")  Knock Out relaxed a little after that, and gained enough confidence to order Optimus out of the makeshift medical bay when he felt Ultra Magnus needed rest.

And that was how Optimus Prime ended up where he was today, with a former Decepticon medic gazing up at him, every inch of him confident and expectant.

"Ultra Magnus," Optimus said, "It has been a while, I think, since you checked the structure of our hierarchy.  I would suggest doing so now."

The blue and white Autobot half-turned to look at him, then turned back as he accessed the file from their network.  "I don't know what you're talking about, Optimus, it's right here.  Ratchet - Chief Medical Officer of . . . Earth."  He ended on a dubious note.  His eyes narrowed.  "And Knock Out - Chief Medical Officer of Cybertron.  Well."

"Well." Knock Out smiled.  "I think you'll agree that I hold the final say in the matter."

"Yes."  It sounded like it hurt Ultra Magnus to say it. But Magnus believe in order and he was an honest bot. "It would appear that you do."

"And what will you choose to do, Knock Out?" Optimus asked. Reminding the medic that this was a choice.  Reminding him, hopefully, that it was also a responsibility.  "We do need those vehicles, as you stated, and we are unlikely to get them unless we cooperate with Bryce." 

Knock Out's smile evaporated.  Optimus pressed on.

"The protoforms will not be able to develop properly without something to imprint off of, correct?"

"They'll die," Knock Out said simply.  He was frowning now, arms crossed tight over his chest.

"What, then," Prime asked gently, "will you do?"  

The medic tapped his fingers against his door paneling.  " . . . I'll think about it." And out he went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, where did the light-hearted funny go? Don't worry--it will be back.


	6. Chapter 6

The first thing Knock Out did upon exiting Magnus' office was to send a text to Wheeljack.

_::Drop all else and invent a time machine immediately.::_

_::Sure thing, Red.  What color do you want it?::_

_::Blue.::_

The second thing was to retreat to his quarters for some serious thinking.  Like everything else about him, Knock Out's living quarters were tasteful and attractive, featuring sleek white walls (covered in high gloss paint) with a variety of well-polished gears fixed to them in a sort of decorative cascade.  (Bumblebee complained that the walls were "blinding," but he was just jealous.)  He could never decide whether he liked having a window or not, so the mirror was pushed in front of it half the time.  The berth in the second room, the bedroom, was rarely used for sleeping since Knock Out typically recharged in vehicle mode.

He was tempted to fold into his alt mode now, to take comfort in the way all his parts interlocked and fitted, perfect and compact.  But he refrained, instead pulling out a datapad and a stylus as he sat at his desk.

He juddered the end of the stylus between his dental plates, click-click-click, as he stared at the blank screen.  Once or twice he started to write something, but the stylus never quite made contact with the datapad.

_This is a nightmare.  It has to be._

They _needed_ those vehicles, damn it.  But that human, _Bryce._   Or was he being unreasonably suspicious?  Maybe the human wasn't a threat.  But if he was.  But they _needed_ those vehicles.

 _::Hey, did you make it out alive?::_   Bumblebee.

_::More or less.::_

_::Smokescreen wants to know if we got shut down.::_

_::Tell him it's fine, it wasn't about the Cabal at all.::_

_::Good! Oh, and he wants to know if we can meet again tonight and finish the secret handshake.::_

_::Busy. Working. Meet without me.::_   After a moment's thought, Knock Out sent, _::Why isn't he telling me this himself?::_

_::He lost your comm code.::_

_::Again??  4.01.892.::_

Despite the combined efforts of Ratchet, Wheeljack, and Knock Out himself, they had never managed to fully integrate his Decepticon-based comm link with the Autobot communications system.  Every so often his automated systems took exception to the abundance of incoming Autobot signals and corrupted his frequency—a Decepticon-engineered precaution against  espionage, as far as any of them could tell.  The workaround was simple, they assigned Knock Out a new frequency each time, but it was certainly annoying.

 _::So, tell! What besetting sin had Prime_ and _Magnus lying in wait for you?::_ Bumblebee asked.

 _::Hubris. Tell you all the juicy details later.::_   Maybe Knock Out would be able to find some miracle solution before he had to admit that he'd fragged up the entire future of their race.  Click-click-click went the stylus between his dentae.

After a few minutes, he heaved himself out of his chair and headed for the monitor room.  Wheeljack was nominally on duty.  "Nominally" because he was snoozing in his chair, arms folded across his chest, rather than looking at the screen.  Knock Out poked his shoulder.

"Where's my time machine?"

"Got it right here," Wheeljack said without opening his eyes, lifting his arm in a rude gesture.

"Wake up or move over.  I want to talk to Ratchet."

"First visiting him, now calling him.  There something you haven't been tellin' us, Red?  You two been playing doctor?"

"You are a disgusting churl."

"I don't know what that is, but it sounds real bad," Wheeljack said cheerfully, tapping some buttons and scooting aside.  "There ya go."

"This is Ratchet.  What's wrong now?"

"It's—hang on."  Knock Out frowned Wheeljack.  "Some privacy, if you please."

"I wonder why that'd be," the Wrecker smirked.

"Wheeljack, stop _leering_ and go away!"

"Whatever you say, Red.  Have a fun totally platonic conversation."  He sauntered off.

Knock Out made a noise of frustration and returned his attention to the computer console.  "It's Knock Out."

"So happy to hear from you," Ratchet said, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.  "You're quite the bot of the hour.  Your name is on everyone's lips."

Knock Out winced.  "I'll admit that . . . mistakes were made, but I'm sure we can find a path forward—"

"Just tell me what you want and get off the line.  I do not want to talk to you."

"I need to meet with Bryce."

"Ab-sol-utely _not._   The fact that you have the NERVE to suggest it—"

"I want to _apologize,_ Ratchet."  Bryce might be satisfied with forcing someone larger and more powerful to come crawling to him, a petty vengeance against a Cybertronian who was rude to him.  "Very Autobot of me, wouldn't you say?"

"No. You've done plenty already.  Now if that's all—"

"No, wait." Knock Out marshaled his thoughts.  "Do you trust him?"

"I can assure you the General is unlikely to attack you or anyone else in a berserker rage."

"But do you _trust_ him?" the ruby red medic persisted.

"General Bryce is a decorated, upstanding member of Unit E."

"So you don't trust him."

"I didn't SAY that, _Knock Out."_

"Fine, whatever.  But can you get them to send Fowler instead?"  Knock Out didn't totally trust Agent Fowler, but he was better than the other one.

A buzz of static as Ratchet sighed.  "No.  You're stuck with Bryce."

Meaning Ratchet had already requested Fowler and been denied.  Meaning he _didn't_ trust Bryce.  "He wants to see the hot spot."

"You aren't telling me anything I don't already know."  Ratchet sounded impatient.  "Anything else?"

"No."

"We need those vehicles, Knock Out."

"I _know._   I'm not _stupid."_

"That remains to be seen.  Over and out."

"Over and out, you rusted out relic," Knock Out snapped after he was sure Ratchet had left the channel. Shoving past Wheeljack, who was none too subtly trying to eavesdrop, he stalked outside, flipped into vehicle mode, and _drove._

Bulkhead had cleared the path to the hot spot somewhat; although sheared-down stubble still prickled under Knock Out's tires and the uneven surface jarred his systems, at least his finish was no longer at risk from the metallic brambles lining the road.

"Hey!  Hey Knock Out, wait up!"

"Smokescreen?" He pulled around at an angle as the blue and gold McLaren caught up with him.  "What are you doing here?"

"I saw you leaving and . . . uh, are we still on?"

Knock Out gave him the blankest stare his headlights were capable of.

Smokescreen's mirrors shifted. "You were going to show me some of your moves, remember?"

"My moves."  Oh Primus, right, he'd foolishly agreed to teach Smokescreen some basic melee attacks and parries.  Because that was clearly a priority in peacetime, on an empty planet with nothing left to fight.  "Yes, fine.  But I need to check the pre-forms first.  Follow me."

"Awesome.  I love seeing the little guys!"  They drove in silence for a while.  "Hey, K.O.?"

"Hmmm?"

"You do have your electro-staff along, right?"

"Always."

"Cool."  After a minute or two Smokescreen said pensively, _"I_ don't have a staff."

"Oh, well.  We'll find you a stick or something."

"That doesn't sound like a very fair fight."

"Rookie, this is going to be anything _but_ a fair fight."


	7. Chapter 7

Knock Out insisted on checking the pre-forms before doing anything else.  Some were little more than glowing sparks embedded in the soil while others were growing into distinctly recognizable forms—mostly, although not always, bipedal.

"How come some are so much farther along than others?" Smokescreen asked.

"Well, some are older than others, of course.  But frankly the growth rate of pre-forms has always shown a lot of variability.  The leading theory is that it has _something_ to do with the spark itself.  If you want to get a room full of academics fighting, ask them to define exactly what that is."

"Ha!  That sounds like—ohmygosh, look!"  He pointed to a shallow depression in the soil, almost like the snow angels he'd seen the kids make that time they'd jaunted off to Colorado.

"Yeeeees, good eye.  One of them separated."  Knock Out's optics lit up.  "So.  If you're lucky you'll see your first hatched protoform.  Keep your optic sensors buzzing.  It'll look silvery, metallic . . . sort of a liquid sheen to its epidermis, too."

Smokescreen strained his optics as they circled the hot spot, carefully picking his way among the other pre-forms.  They should've looked eerie, maybe, so still and silent, but instead Smokescreen thought they looked peaceful.  Like they were asleep, dreaming of the new lives they'd have when they woke up.    

"Look."  Knock Out patted another depression with the tip of his foot.

"So there are at least two protoforms out there?  Why don't we, y'know, see them?"  Smokescreen turned in a circle.

"Oh, they're probably hiding," Knock Out said.  He was checking his datapad for notes, looking up the ID code he'd given the new-spark who had recently inhabited the depression in front of him. "Like I said, they're skittish.  Here's what this one looks like."  He sent Smokescreen a file, an image of a silvery being curled protectively around its spark, half buried in the metallic soil.

"Whoa, what are those things on its . . . shoulders?  Are those shoulders?"

"No idea.  Some of them you look at them and immediately think 'Car!' or 'Aircraft!' and others could go any which way.  Ahhh, I wish this one had waited, though, it was one of my favorites."

"Why would you want it to wait?  Because we don't have the cars and stuff here yet?"

Knock Out's mouth dipped into a downward curve and his eyes dimmed for a minute.  "No . . . Nooo, that's not quite what I meant."  Then he was back to normal, striding off, a little impatient.  "Did you want to train or not?"

"Heck yeah!  Bring it!"

Ten minutes later, Smokescreen was doing the same practice forms over and over while Knock Out sat cross-legged on the ground, updating his notes or occasionally just staring pensively into the distance.  And very, _very_ occasionally sparing a glance for Smokescreen.  "That's right.  Upright stance, lunge forward, sweep.  Upright, lunge, sweep.  Mm-hm, good . . ."  His attention drifted back to the datapad.

"Knock Out.  You suck."

"You wanted to learn.  This is how you learn.  Through repetition."

"This is how I learn that you suck.  Come on, at least teach me something cool!"

"Nnnnn." The medic didn't look up.

"Like that spinny thing," Smokescreen persisted.  "That spinny thing you do with your staff."

"Oh, all RIGHT!  Just stop fussing!"  Knock Out pushed himself off the ground and grabbed the long, metallic stick Smokescreen had been using.  It blurred into a whirl of silver as Knock Out spun it in his fingers before thumping the butt on the ground.  "There."

"That's not teaching, that's showing off.  Do it again."

Rolling his optics, Knock Out spun the stick again. 

"Can't you do it _slower?_   Like, show me the hand positions."

"Anything to shut you up."  Knock Out gripped the impromptu staff and poised for action.  Then he dropped the fighting stance and tossed the stick back to Smokescreen.  "I can't do it if I'm thinking about it."

"Wow, you are the worst teacher."

"I think _you're_ the worst student."  Knock Out closed his eyes as he lifted his chin and crossed his arms in a gesture of superiority.

Smokescreen knew an opportunity when he saw one.  He swung the stick like a baseball bat, smacking Knock Out's helm—not hard, just a little payback for that business with the video game.  The staff rebounded off the shiny red helmet and screeched across the medic's shoulder.

Smokescreen fought back a snicker as Knock Out gaped, staring incredulously from the blue and gold bot to the scratch across his shoulderpad.

"Wow, turns out you were a good instructor after all—OH SCRAP!"  Smokescreen twisted sideways, narrowly avoiding being on the receiving end of ten sharpened claws.

"You scratch my paint, I SCRATCH YOURS!"

"Knock Out!"  Dodge to the left.  "Just a joke, buddy!"  Duck and roll.  "Ha-ha, funny, right?"  He tried to dodge again, but Knock Out grabbed the stick that Smokescreen was still clutching, used it to pull him close, and got him in a headlock.

"Horrible little brat!" he hissed.

Smokescreen squawked and struggled.  "C-come on!  It's not a big deal!  Just a little, itsy, bitsy scratch.  Just needs some buffing and a coat of wax and, hey, I'll even help you buff, okay?"

"If you think I'm letting you near my buffer, EVER, think again!"  Knock Out snapped, tightening his hold.  "And 'just needs a good coat of wax', I like that!  Do you think it grows on _trees?_  Here I am, living off the last of my carnauba, and I can't get any more because—"

The silence hit so suddenly that Smokescreen awkwardly twisted his head to see what was wrong with the ex 'Con.  Knock Out was staring fixedly at nothing, at the ground, his optics flicking from side to side and a truly alarming smile spreading across his smooth white face.  He released Smokescreen so suddenly that the younger bot fell and got a mouthful of dirt. 

"Carnauba wax."  Knock Out's grin was wide and just a shade off manic.  "And all the other trimmings. Of course.  Why didn't I think of it before?"  Smokescreen shrunk back as five sharp claws reached for him, but Knock Out just grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him up to his feet.  "Come along, dear child. Let's go home."

"Uh.  Sure.  And . . . do you think you can not call me that?"

"Suit yourself, brat." 

* * *

"I hereby call the third meeting of the Cabal of Irresponsibility to order."

"I thought you had to work," Bumblebee said.

"This is more important than work," Knock Out said.  "The President and Supreme Ruler of Whatever has a mission for you, Spec Ops, and you, R&D."

"I'm all audials," Wheeljack said, sipping the cube of high-grade he'd brought.

"Good."  Knock Out clicked his fingers together.  "Mr. President?"

"Uh, right.  What we want you to do . . . I mean, what I want you to do . . ."  He cast a sidelong glance at Knock Out, who nodded encouragingly at him.  "Is to go to the _Nemesis—_ "

"Wait, what?"

"—fix the computer system—"

"Yeesh."

"—and . . ."  Another glance at Knock Out, who leaned close to whisper in his audial.  " . . . and retrieve Knock Out's stash of cosmetic supplies."

"Aaaand the light dawns," Bumblebee said flatly.

"I intend to _share,"_ Knock Out said.  "Communal property.  An asset to the club.  We all like to look our best, don't we?  Except Wheeljack."

"I've been told grunge works for me.  What's this about the computer?"

"Frankly, it was stupid to break it to begin with."

"I didn't hear you objecting at the time."

"Well, I was new then, wasn't I? I didn't want to rock the boat. Believe me, I've regretted staying quiet ever since—"

"—and he has been careful never to shut his mouth again." Smokescreen said.

Knock Out gave him a dirty look.  "You're one to talk. ANYWAY, if you fix it we'll be able to find some of the assets I had tucked away on Earth, like wax and such.  Always pays to keep a stockpile hidden somewhere.  Not to mention the broader aspects, like possibly being able to track Shockwave or the Predacons."

"Yeah, _if_ we can get the computer running again," Wheeljack said.  "We did a number on it, hardware and software.  Didn't want any 'Cons usin' it against us, remember?  No offense."

"Hmm, none taken."  Knock Out half closed his optics.  "Still, if anyone can fix it, it's you.  You _want_ to go on the mission, don't you?  You can't go if you don't have a job.   I thought you _liked_ adventure."

"Yeeeeah . . ."

"Although I'm sure you'll be sad to miss Magnus' 'sort the nuts and bolts by size and year of manufacture' party.  The event of the year, narrowly beating out the 'watch paint dry' event."

"Oh _frag_ no.  All right, I'll go."

"Great!  So you and Bumblebee get the computers running, grab as much wax as you can carry, and come back."

"Objection, Mr. Secretary—"

"AND Vice-President."

"—because as enticing as this trip sounds, Ultra Magnus will blow a fuse if we just disappear.  It takes a week just to get out there, you know."

"I'll take care of it," Knock Out said.  He sounded both confident and sincere, which was alarming.  "And I'm going to bridge you there and back."

"Gotta hand it to you, Red.  When it comes to stirring up trouble, you jump in with both feet and all four wheels."

"Backing out, Wheeljack?"

"Pit, no.  Sounds like a blast."

"Speaking of which, keep the explosions to a minimum, please.  Bee, don't let him blow up anything important."

"Wait, how come we don't get to go?" Smokescreen complained.  "I want to raid the lost Ark!"

"Because, Smokescreen—"

"Get it?  Like 'Raiders of the Lost Ark.'  Even though that was actually an Autobot ship."

"Wonderful.  Having applauded your wit, let's move on.  I'm staying because I need to monitor the hot spot and activate the ground bridge controls.  You're staying in case I need assistance.  A very important job."

"Well."  Smokescreen rubbed his chin.  "What kind of assistance?"

"Sorting nuts and bolts."


	8. Chapter 8

The 'Sort the Nuts and Bolts by Size and Year of Manufacture Party' was not, unfortunately, something Knock Out had invented just to encourage Wheeljack to go on the mission.  In fact, Ultra Magnus had been planning it for over a month.  Initially it had just been Sort the Nuts and Bolts by Size and Year of Manufacture _Day._   Ultra Magnus had added the 'party' bit after some bots (Wheeljack) complained that it didn't sound like fun. 

Although he would never have admitted it, Knock Out didn't think it sounded all _that_ bad . . . everyone in one room, gossiping away, without any risk to his finish?  Not bad at _all._   And, like Magnus, he had an appreciation for order.  Everything in its place.  It was a little insulting that they had to do the menial work more appropriate for _drones,_ but there wasn't anyone else to do it, after all.

Others were not so sanguine about the event; Arcee proved more than willing to trade her graveyard shift of monitor duty for Knock Out's daytime shift, which would allow her to escape the party (at least for a few hours). 

"What are _you_ getting out of this?" Arcee asked, eyeing Knock Out suspiciously.  The two of them normally didn't interact much, for a variety of reasons.  Chief among these was Knock Out's deeply ingrained suspicion of any Cybertronian smaller than himself and the fact that it was far too easy to forget that she was Third-in-Command.  Knock Out didn't mind superior officers, but they should _act_ like superior officers.

"I'd rather do anything besides stare at a computer screen for hours, twiddling my thumbs," Knock Out told her, which was the truth.  "But since I _have_ to do the wretched monitor duty, I might as well do it when there's nothing else to do anyway."

"Well . . ." Arcee looked tempted.  "All right.  It's a deal." 

They shook on it, solemnly.  Knock Out kept his elation off his face; this was supposedly an arrangement to make his life slightly more palatable, not part of a highly involved scheme.  Arcee didn't need to know that he'd be bridging Bumblebee and Wheeljack out in the dead of night, with no inconvenient witnesses around.

"Hey," Arcee added, "don't forget about tomorrow.  Jack's really looking forward to it."

His first thought was, _Wheeljack, you idiot, I told you not to tell her!_  

Then he remembered—Jack, that was the name of her own personal human.  Knock Out had promised to take the children—and any other interested parties—out to the hot spot.  The fact that his offer "accidentally" coincided with the day of the Sort the Nuts and Bolts by Size and Year of Manufacture Party had been a source of great annoyance to Commander Magnus and great rejoicing to everyone else. 

For his part, Knock Out felt that expecting everyone to work all day straight, as Magnus was wont to demand, would have been a massive mistake.  After a predictable round of "Oh, I'm so sorry for the scheduling conflict, sir, my bad, it was an accident," he finally gained approval from the Commander.

So. Taking the human children to the site while he worked fervently to prevent Bryce from ever seeing it.  The irony was not lost on Knock Out.

He shook his head and went to find Bumblebee.

* * *

"—so I've listed the passcodes for you, they _should_ all be in order if you can get the computer up and running.  I've got a data-stick somewhere—ah, here."  He pressed it into Bumblebee's hand.  "Download the file I've listed.  And any others that catch your eye," he added as an afterthought. "But definitely this one."

Bumblebee examined the filename. "KOB?  Ah yes, the infamous Decepticon corn lobby."

"What?"

"It was a joke. Never mind."  Bumblebee ran through the list again, then eyed the red grounder.

"What?" Knock Out said in a completely different tone, crossing his arms.

"You knooow, for having been a Decepticon, you've never been such a great liar."

"Now THAT'S a _lie._   I've just taught you too much, Bug.  To my everlasting chagrin."

"C'mon.  What's this about really?"

"I'll tell you when you get back."

"Don't you trust me?"

"That," Knock Out sniffed, "is a silly question.  But what can one expect from today's dissolute youth?"

"Yeah, well, pretty soon the new generation will be the dissolute youth.  I'll be the cranky old bot shaking my cane at them."

"Right."  Knock Out took the data-pad from him, frowning as he double-checked the passwords.  "Keep an eye on Wheeljack, make sure he doesn't start, I don't know, trying to blast through the walls instead of using the doors or something _Wrecker-ish_ like that."

Bumblebee took the data-pad back.  "So you're really not going to tell me what this is about?"

"I think I answered that already," Knock Out said, a little more sharply than he intended.

"No, you evaded.  Like you do."

"You figured out what I meant, so it's the same thing."

"If you're in trouble with Magnus and Prime—"

Knock Out's lips twitched in spite of himself.  "I can handle our _dear Commander_ just fine, thank you very much.  And Prime is . . . Prime.  Look.  I'll explain everything, just not _now._   You trust _me,_ don't you?"

"Against my better judgment."

And that was good enough for Knock Out.

  


_[Adorable fan art from[Ms. Miracle](http://ms-miracle.tumblr.com/), OMG.]_  


* * *

"You know what?" Miko announced.  "This would make a great setting for a horror movie."

"Why's that, Miko?" Bulkhead asked, setting her on his shoulder to give her a better view of the hot spot.

"'Cause of all the freaky protoforms, _duh."_  

"Freaky?" Bulkhead looked out at the silvery forms nestled in the soil.  "Huh, I'm not seeing it.  Anyway, those are pre-forms.  Protoforms is when they're, y'know, walking around on their own and stuff."

"There are a couple protoforms around here," Smokescreen told them, proud of his knowledge.  "Haven't seen 'em yet, but maybe today, right?"

"That's the spirit, Smokey," Bulkhead agreed.  "Man, I hope so too.  Haven't seen one in forever."

"Well, I still think they'd make awesome zombies," Miko said.  "Let's take a look at that one, Bulk."

"And just _where_ do you think you're going?" Suddenly a ruby red grounder was blocking their way.  "Stay on the hill, I said, I think I was clear about that!"

"Easy, Knock, we were just going to—"

"—stay on the _hill?"_

"Um.  Yes.  Right.  That's . . . exactly what we're gonna do."

_"Good."_

"Whoa," Smokescreen commented, watching Knock Out stalk away.  "Intense."

Bulkhead just chuckled. "He's just worried about trying to keep an eye on so many people at once."

Smokescreen nodded.  It was true, there was quite a crowd at the hot spot.  Himself, Bulkhead and Miko, Arcee and Jack, and, unexpectedly, Ratchet.  Smokescreen kind of thought it was Ratchet who was really getting on the shiny red mech's nerves, though.  Just something about the glances Knock Out kept shooting him.  "Hey, what happened to Bumblebee and Raf?  Can't believe they'd miss this."

"Raf called and said he had the flu or something," Miko said, fiddling with the small white device strapped to her wrist.  Wheeljack had invented a device that maintained a small, artificial "Earthen" atmosphere around the humans, provided they wore the small, round discs on their ankles and wrists.  Arcee insisted that the children wear oxygenated facemasks anyway, just in case.  "Just in case" was always a good precaution to take with Wheeljack's inventions.  "And Bumblebee didn't want to go without him, I guess."

"Miko, are you sure you should be messing with that thing?" Bulkhead asked.  "I don't want you choking to death."

"Aw, Bulk."

"He's right. Unless you think it would be fun dying on an alien planet," Arcee said, walking up.

"Hey Jack, what do you think of our baby-bots, huh?" Smokescreen grinned.

"Hey, Smokescreen.  They're really . . . metallic?"  Jack scrubbed his hand on the back of his head.

"Yeah, they're pretty cute— _uh_ oh, doctor fight!"  Everyone looked down the hill to see Ratchet and Knock Out glaring at each other.  They were too far away to hear, but they were clearly arguing.  The older mech kept pointing out at the pre-forms while the shiny red medic kept his arms crossed and shoulders hunched right up to the point where he snapped and started gesticulating so fast his hands were a blur, leaning forward to challenge Ratchet.

Miko put her hands to either side of her mouth and bellowed, "NOW KISS!"  

The glare that both bots gave as they swirled around was pretty priceless.

"Humans . . . _Really,"_ Knock Out growled as he stalked back to the group.

"Ha!  Got you that time, _arch-nemesis!"_   Miko grinned triumphantly.

"Ha. Ha ha ha."

"Miko," Ratchet said, "I'm going to ask Agent Fowler to give you fewer lessons on blowing things up and more on _manners."_

"Pffft."

"What were you two fighting about, anyway?" Arcee asked, curious.

"We weren't _fighting,_ we were merely . . . disagreeing," Ratchet said.

"Strongly," Knock Out muttered.  "As a matter of fact—what _is it,_ Smokescreen?"

"I see one," Smokescreen said in a hushed voice.  "I see a protoform."

Instantly everyone was on high alert, none moreso than the two medics. 

"What?" Ratchet demanded.  "Where?"

Smokescreen pointed.  It was all the way over at the base of another hill, a silvery bipedal figure wandering through the brush, occasionally crouching to poke at the brush, or standing on tiptoe to look around.  Its movements were just a little bit jerky and uncertain.

Ratchet picked up Jack to give him a better view.  "Whoa," the boy said, "that's . . . that's . . ."

"Totally creepy," Miko said.  "WOW."

"What?"

_"Creepy?"_

"How can you say that?" Smokescreen said, pointing to the protoform as it picked up a metallic twig and testingly licked it.  "That's, like, the cutest thing I've _ever seen."_

"You really don't like it?" Bulkhead sounded bewildered.

"I didn't say I didn't like it, I said it was _creepy._   Jack, back me up here."

"Uhhh . . ."

 _"Well,_ Jack?" Arcee crossed her arms.

"I'm sorry, guys, but . . . I'm kind of weirded out by it too."

"Humans!" Knock Out threw his arms in the air.  "They have no appreciation for _what we are."_ He gave Ratchet a look.

"It's not that I'm not happy for you guys," Jack said hastily.  "I think it's awesome that you're having, uh . . . children? I guess?"

Ratchet broke off his glaring contest with Knock Out to answer. "More or less. Offspring. Yes. Although they _are_ far more independent and self-sustaining than human offspring."

Knock Out nodded. "Precocial."

"Gesundheit!" Miko replied cheerfully.

" . . . never mind."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was part of a single chapter that was getting way too massive, so I decided to split it into two chapters. Except there wasn't really any good place to split it. Aaaanyway.


	9. Chapter 9

As the rest bantered back and forth, Jack kept staring down the valley at the protoform, willing himself to see the "cuteness" that the Cybertronians insisted was present.  He guessed he could _sort of_ understand how the silvery creature walking with that lopsided, uncertain gait, stopping to stare in random direction with its big black eyes was—okay, no, it was still super creepy. Like, X-Files creepy.

Smokescreen obviously didn't agree;  he kept his gaze eagerly fixed on the protoform, utterly charmed.  More than once he uttered a soft "awww!".  When the protoform finally disappeared around the base of a distant hill, he said, "Wow. That was _totally awesome."_

"Uh, yeah!" Jack agreed hastily.  "Awesome, Smokescreen!"

"Awesome. . . for a zombiiie," Miko said in a faux whisper.

"Oh, Miko," Bulkhead chuckled.  "I'm with Smokey, he was a cute little guy, wasn't he?  Or gal. Can't really tell yet.  Too bad it's a twenty-fiver, though."

"A what?" asked Jack.

Smokescreen was wondering the same thing.  "What's that?"

Bulkhead looked surprised.  "You don't know what a twenty-fiver is?"

"Bulkhead," Knock Out and Arcee said at the same time, in identical admonishing tones.

"Aw, scrap." The Wrecker looked at Smokescreen and the kids.  "Uh, nothing!  It's nothing."

"Okay, now you've _got_ to tell us," Miko said with authority.

Ratchet vented a sigh.  "As _resourceful_ as you are," he gave Miko a dark look, "I suppose you'll find out soon or later.  A 'twenty-fiver' is—"

 _"I'm_ in charge here, _I'll_ tell them," Knock Out snapped.  He turned towards the others.  "'Twenty-fiver' is a crude bit of slang for, ah, the mortalities."

"The mortalities?" Miko asked.

"Right.  The ones who don't make it."

Smokescreen was horrified.  "Are you saying that cute little guy is going to _die?"_

"Not at all.  It's _entirely_ possible he'll survive to maturity!" Knock Out said lightly.  Ratchet raised an eyebrow at him; the ruby red medic huffed.  "Although, statistically speaking, probably not."

"But . . . but why?  How can we help?  I mean . . . do we need to give him more energy or shelter or—"

"Smokescreen," Ratchet said, firm but gentle.  "It has nothing to do with what's available to it, individually.  It's more like . . ."  He thought for a moment.  "We _think_ it has to do with a cohort—a group of protoforms—maintaining a critical mass, socially speaking.  Protoforms aren't meant to hatch alone.  Well then.  The first ones to separate from Cybertronian soil have . . . a difficult time of it."

"And the last," Knock Out added.  "Either end of the bell curve is not where you want to be, if you're a protoform.  The y-axis, of course, being—"

"I don't care about the y-axis!" Smokescreen burst out.  "I care that this _sucks!"_

Arcee put a hand on his arm, comforting.  "I know.  It always has."

The children had been uncharacteristically silent, but now Miko spoke up in a small voice.  "Why are they called twenty-fivers?"

Bulkhead cleared his throat. "It's 'cause—and I'm really sorry I brought this up, by the way—it's 'cause they usually lose twenty-five percent of them.  Um.  From either end."

"From either—so _fifty_ percent?!" Jack said incredulously.  _"Half_ of them? Seriously?"

"It's _not_ fifty percent and it hasn't been in millions of years.  It's just like you to spread that myth, _Bulkhead."_ Knock Out rolled his eyes. "It's usually ten to fifteen percent at either end of the curve.  So thirty percent _max."_

"Whatever!  I'm just answering questions the best I can here!"

Smokescreen looked down the valley again.  "So we've spent all this time fighting, building better missiles and bigger guns while this just . . . happens?  That's what we've been doing, instead of helping them?"

"Wow, thank you, Smokescreen.  Helping the protoforms: why didn't we think of that?" Knock Out said drily.  "Of _course_ we've been trying to lower the mortality rates; there are whole fields of study devoted to it."

"Or were, before the scientific institutions were blown to scrap," Ratchet muttered under his breath.

Knock Out continued. "And we've made progress, too. Why do you think the death rate dropped from twenty-five percent down to fifteen?  And, I might add, that some of the greatest strides—"

"Knock Out—" Ratchet growled.

"Some of the _greatest strides,_ " Knock Out persisted, louder, "were made during the war.  Oss-oss, for example."

That was what it sounded like to Smokescreen, anyway.  "Oss-oss?  What's that?"

"It was an abomination," Ratchet huffed.

"It was," Knock Out corrected, "one of the most far-reaching scientific endeavors of all time.  Oh-Ess-Oh-Ess.  O.S.O.S."

"What was that, some kind of training program?" Miko asked, drumming her heels against Bulkhead's chest.

"It was a particularly unethical experimentation program," Ratchet said, "even by Decepticon standards."

"Reducing predation on protoforms was cruel?  Protecting growing pre-forms from acid rain was cruel?  Tsk-tsk, Ratchet."

"That was _hardly_ all O.S.O.S. did, as well you know."

"Time out!" Smokescreen held his hands up in a T formation.  "'Cause I still don't know what you're talking about."

"O.S.O.S.—'One Spark, One Soldier'—was a rather ambitious attempt to ensure that every spark made it to maturity," Knock Out explained.

"Waaait a second," Miko said.  "The _'Cons_ were trying to save all the baby-sparks?  But they're the _bad guys!"_

Knock Out gave her a cold look.  "Sorry if we weren't sufficiently _villainous_ for your tastes, _Miko."_

"Tuh! Experimenting on helpless protoforms wasn't villainous?" Ratchet demanded.

Knock Out paused.  "Some of the research went . . . a bit far.  But it did produce results."

"Well, that justifies everything," Ratchet said sarcastically.  "And next you'll tell me the Decepticons did it out of the goodness of their sparks, without any ulterior motives."

"Hardly ulterior.  More like blatant.  It was right there in the name—One Spark, One _Soldier._   The whole point," he explained, turning to the others, "was to acquire new recruits for the _glorious_ Decepticon army.  The reproductive rate was dropping and the High Command was going through Decepticon soldiers like . . . like . . . well, like the High Command went through Decepticon soldiers.  Talk about your mortalities . . . "

"And somehow that makes it okay to _brainwash_ new-sparks? And that's not touching on the experimentation.  Trying to fracture sparks—disgusting."

"Well, we got the Vehicons out of it.  Which, admittedly, is nothing to crow about.  But really, Ratchet . . .  are you suggesting the Autobots had squeaky clean servos?  How about the D.I.N.O.'s little experiments, hmmm?  Or should I say their big, hulking, brutish experiments?"

"D.I.N.O.?" Jack asked.

"The Department of, mmm, let me think," Knock Out tapped his chin.  "The Department of Instrumentalization of . . . Natal? Nascent?"

"The Department for the Instrumentalization of Nascency and Obstetrics," Ratchet mumbled. "But that was _completely different—"_

"Of course.  It was for _your_ side."

"The Autobot scientists followed strict ethical guidelines!"

"Is that why the D.I.N.O.'s _products_ were always half _braindead?_   You always knew when you were fighting one, that's for sure.  'Me Autobot smash you bad Decepticon.'  Clearly an _incredible_ amount of care and nurturing went into their development."

 _"One_ unethical division run by Autobots doesn't compare to the Decepticons' systematic use of sparks as test subjects!  Or to an entire faction's acceptance of it!"

"The _acceptance_ of it?  Do you think the powers that be _polled_ us before they went ahead with their little side projects?  Do you think they came to me and said, 'Excuse me, lowly field medic, but we wanted your opinion: experimenting on sparks, yea or nay?'?"

"And _yet_ a minute ago you were defending them."

"I wasn't _defending_ them, I was . . ." Clearly frustrated, Knock Out's rolled his hand forward and pinched his fingertips together, as though trying to pull than answer from thin air.  "I didn't _approve_ of everything O.S.O.S. did, but I understand how we got to that point." The sun caught his gleaming paint as he suddenly leaned forward, eyes narrowed.  "It started with the simple little questions about sparks and protoforms, all for the greater good of _course,_ and then the boundaries were pushed, and pushed, and _pushed_ again until we couldn't even _see_ the boundaries anymore. The thing about pursuing knowledge, Ratchet, is _you don't know who else will take up the chase."_

Ratchet's shoulders creaked as he tensed. "And so your solution is—what?  Rampant paranoia of everyone with a passing interest in knowledge?"

"Not paranoia; foresight.  Looking down the road a good long stretch for upcoming problems.  It probably comes from being a sports car;  when you roll at two hundred miles per hour obstacles come up faster than you'd think.  Supposing you could've headed off the O.S.O.S. project at its start, Ratchet.  Wouldn't you have done so?  _Even if it meant making_ _certain sacrifices?"_

"That would depend," Ratchet gritted out, "if they were my sacrifices or _an innocent party's."_

"And I'm sure the legions of _innocent parties_ suffering in the future would applaud your lack of action.  'Yes, Ratchet, could have prevented this,' they would say, 'but at least he can _sleep_ at night, thank goodness for that'—"

As the argument between Ratchet and Knock Out volleyed back and forth, the others looked on in increasing bewilderment.  Something was _off—_ in Knock Out's delivery, in the way Ratchet's servos had clenched into fists, in the way the two medics almost seemed to have traded sides compared to their initial arguments.  Their words made sense, but not really, not quite, not for _them._ Bulkhead and Smokescreen shifted uncomfortably; Arcee watched the two intently, her optic ridges raised.

"Uh . . . hey!" Bulkhead broke in.  Both medics looked at him.  "Uh, hey, I think I saw 'Con poster about O.S.O.S. once.  Know anything about that, Knock?"

"Oh . . . yes." The former Decepticon seemed a little taken aback by the comment.  "The whole thing was accompanied by a _massive_ propaganda campaign.  Some rather artistic pieces came out of it.  What did it look like?"

"Well, it had a couple of bots on it and 'O.S.O.S.' in big letters."

"Congratulations, you have successfully described every O.S.O.S. poster ever."  Despite the snide words, Knock Out looked faintly amused.  "Was it this one?"  His eyes flickered as he dug an image file out of a long unused folder deep in his memory banks.  He dropped it in the electronic share-space, available for anyone who cared to download it.

"No, not that one," Bulkhead said, after studying it.

"Hey!" Miko said, tapping on the side of his helm with her fist.  "I wanna see!"

"Wait." Knock Out tapped on his data-pad a few times before handing it to Bulkhead.  "There."

"Uh, Bulkhead, do you mind if I . . . ?" Jack gestured.

"Nope, come on up," the green bot answered easily.  With Arcee's help, the teenager settled on Bulkhead's other shoulder, leaning forward to peer at the image on the screen.

It reminded him a little of the art deco pictures he'd studied in Art History.  The focal point of the image was a highly stylized, angular Seeker raising a hand skyward, palm up.  The golden sphere in his (her?) hand had been artistically rendered to represent both a golden spark, ready to be whisked away on the wind, and the eye of a hulking soldier, seen only as a ghostly silhouette somewhere behind the Seeker.

"It says 'ONE SPARK, ONE SOLDIER,'" Smokescreen told them helpfully, although Jack had already guessed what the Cybertronian words meant.  "In caps."

"Try this one, Bulkhead," said Knock Out.

This picture featured a tank mech, a smallish one judging by his height in comparison to the doorway he was standing in.  The style was more realistic than the last picture, with dark shadows cast by dim streetlights.  Worry showed on the tank-bot's face as he peered into the night, his hands cupped protectively around a purple spark.  A half-seen figure was stalking down the street, mostly defined by a pair of ominously glowing blue eyes.  The text on that one was "PROTECT EVERY SPARK. IT'S YOUR DUTY. O.S.O.S."

"Always thought 'it's your duty' was a bit unnecessary, myself. It breaks the flow," Knock Out said.  "That wasn't it either, hmm, Bulkhead?  How about this . . ."

Back to the art deco, with a cavalcade of sparks floating on the wind, the nearest in the foreground and the farthest blending seamlessly with the bright laserfire of a distant squadron of Seekers.  "RISING TO GREATNESS.  ONE SPARK, ONE SOLDIER."

"Geez, I had no idea there were so many of these," Bulkhead said. "The one I'm thinkin' of . . . It was two mechs—"

("So not this one," Knock Out murmured, unveiling one of two femmes supporting a spark, together, on the tips of their fingers.)

"—and they were, uh . . . Now, I didn't actually _own_ this poster, this femme I knew had it up above her bunk . . ."

"Oh, I _see."_ Knock Out's smirked as he sent the next file. 

"Whoa." Smokescreen's jaw dropped as he opened it.  "That's . . . Wow, that's . . ."

"Bulkhead, please tell me your friend wasn't putting Decepticon pornography above her bunk."

"It's . . . not that bad, 'Cee.  More like a pin-up, right?"

"Seriously?  A pin-up would be the one 'Con pushing the other on a swing or something, not the two of them baring everything they've got."

Jack blinked.  "Wait . . . what?"

"I _need_ to see this," Miko declared, craning her neck even as Bulkhead hid the data-pad's screen with one massive hand.

"Oh, let them look, it's not like they'll _understand,"_ Knock Out said, stealing the data-pad away from the larger bot with a flick of his wrist and holding it up for the humans.  Miko and Jack (even "the responsible one" was allowed to be curious _once in a while_ , he told himself) leaned forward.   

Two bots, both with Decepticon insignias placed prominently on their chassis, sat across from each other. One had opened his chestplates, but since he sat at a three-quarter angle with his back to the viewer, his open armor obscured the source of the light blazing in front of him like a corona.  Only a thin gleam edged over his wing, like a miniature sunrise. 

The other mech had dug his fingers into the seam running between his _own_ chestplate and was in the process of prying them apart.  A sphere of light was just visible between the shifting panels, casting streamers of light over his fingers.

"That's it?" Miko said after a pause.

"I was kind of expecting something more . . . well, more," admitted Jack.  "What's the text say?"

"'FOR THE CAUSE.  O.S.O.S.'"

"Saving this one in my memory banks forever.  Long live the Decepticons!" Smokescreen said fervently.  Knock Out cuffed him on the back of his head with the data-pad.  "Knock Out, OW!"

"Whelp." The medic smiled indulgently as the blue and gold Autobot rubbed his helm.  "Yes, there was period where the High Command encouraged every 'Con to indulge in hedonistic delights 'for the greater glory (and expansion) of the Decepticon army', but alas, all to soon we were back to 'don't get involved with your fellow soldiers, and if you _do,_ then please don't tell us about it.'"  Knock Out thought for a minute.  "Actually, scratch the 'please'."

"Knock Out." Ratchet crossed his arms.  "You probably could have communicated that to Smokescreen _without_ punching him into the dirt."

"I didn't punch him."  Knock Out regarded Smokescreen, eyeing him a few seconds before turning towards the white and orange mech with a shrug.  "Anyway, he's fine."

"I _am_ , Ratchet, really," Smokescreen said hastily.  "I was just surprised."

"Wonderful," Ratchet muttered.  "I'll be the one having to explain his processor damage to Prime, I'm sure."

"Oh, lighten up," Knock Out said.

"You can say that?  You can stand there _right now_ and say _that?"_

"Why not?"

"Because," Ratchet's voice lowered to a hissed whisper only the red mech could hear, "you've chosen the more dangerous route."

Knock Out's reply was even quieter, though composed.  "As I've made abundantly clear, I haven't chosen any path.  Yet.  And I won't until I have to.  And on that note . . ."  His smile was nothing if not confident. "If you're facing two equally nasty roads, isn't the best option to find a _third_ route?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of nowhere, I have the headcanon of Ultra Magnus having cooking as a hobby.

Ultra Magnus was satisfied by the results of the Sort the Nuts and Bolts by Size and Year of Manufacture Party.  Not _elated_ —that would have been unseemly—but satisfied.  An important task had been completed, no one had managed to injure themselves, and Optimus had complimented Magnus' homemade energon treats.  In fact, he and Optimus had eaten most of them themselves;  for a quite a time they were the only two partygoers, everyone else having traipsed off on Knock Out's little jaunt.  Just him and Prime, passing a magnifying glass back and forth as they looked for the manufacturer's stamp.  And in all honesty, Ultra Magnus had been fine with that too.

At Optimus' suggestion, they had asked Ratchet to join the troupe headed out to the hot spot—ostensibly to check on the sparks, but actually to talk sense into Knock Out.  But Ratchet returned looking sour while an alarmingly cheerful Knock Out settled himself on the floor and started flicking bolts into their containers (and occasionally flicking one at Smokescreen's head as well). 

"He's completely intractable," Ratchet fumed later as Optimus frowned in concern and Ultra Magnus just plain frowned.  "He _refuses_ to let General Bryce anywhere near the hot spot."

"I see." As simple as the two words were, Optimus looked deeply troubled.  "And his reasoning?"

"Nothing we didn't know about before.  He doesn't trust humans.  I don't know if it's because he's a Decepticon—"

"Former Decepticon," Optimus said gently.

"—or for more . . . _personal_ . . . reasons.  Either way, same result.  He. will. not. budge."

"Did you make him realize the gravity of the situation?" Ultra Magnus asked sharply.  "Without vehicles—"

"He's a medic; he's stubborn, not stupid.  He knows _exactly_ what will happen to the protoforms if vehicles aren't provided.  He told me to my face that he's 'considering all his options' and that the loss of the cohort— _the entire cohort—_ would be 'unfortunate but not unthinkable.'" 

Ultra Magnus broke the silence that followed.  "Thank you, Doctor.  We will . . . take care of it."

 _"Thank_ you.  I'm getting too old for this nonsense."  The orange and white medic paused in the doorway.  "It's not that he doesn't care.  It would be easier if he didn't.  He's planning something.  He wouldn't tell me what, oh no, that would be _far_ too simple.  Just kept spouting nonsense like 'just because there's a toll road doesn't mean you have to take it' and 'sometimes you have to build your own off-ramp.'"

"We will bear that in mind," Optimus said.  "Thank you for your assistance."

"Good luck," Ratchet said.  "You'll need it, I'm sure."

Optimus and Ultra Magnus looked at each other as the door closed.

"Remember how reserved Knock Out was when he first joined us?  How long it took to draw him out of his shell?" Ultra Magnus sighed and massaged his helm.  "Sometimes I wish I could stick him back in it."

That earned a laugh from Optimus.  "It's late, my friend.  Let's leave our medic to himself for the moment.  Things will look brighter in the morning."

* * *

"Bulkhead.  Have you seen Wheeljack?" Ultra Magnus asked the next day as the first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon.  Then he asked it again, louder, because although Bulkhead was dutifully attending the monitor, he was also sound asleep.

"N-nooope," the green Aubobot yawned. (Not even bothering to apologize!) "Can't say that I have.  Not since yesterday."  He thought for a moment.  "Actually not since the day before."

Ultra Magnus grunted.  He was not surprised in the least that Wheeljack had gone off on his own to avoid work.  Probably still asleep in some corner of the base.  What did he care if the Ultra Magnus needed someone to scout out an energy source?  "Understood.  And Bulkhead—the point of monitor duty is to WATCH the monitors.  Cybertronian ships could return to Cybertron at any time."

"Ye-eeeeah," Bulkhead said, scratching the back of his helm.  "Only . . . there haven't been any so far, have there?  Ever?"

"We have to be ready, soldier," Ultra Magnus said firmly before continuing on towards his office.  Sometimes it seemed like he was the only sane bot around here, the only one with any sense of _order._  

He opened the door to his office . . . and found it already occupied.

"Commander Magnus, sir," Knock Out said, rising to his feet and pressing his hand across his chest in a formal salute.

Ultra Magnus stared.  He was not sure what was more unusual, that Knock Out was waiting for him, unasked, or that Knock Out had acknowledged his rank without the least vestige of mockery.  The chair he'd been sitting in, Magnus noted, was the one from his last, contentious meeting, dragged away from the wall so that it was once again directly in front of his desk.  The medic held the salute as Ultra Magnus studied him. 

"At ease, Doctor," he said at last, passing by him to reach his desk. And Knock Out dropped flawlessly into the proper "at ease" stance, legs shoulder-width apart, back straight, hands folded neatly behind his back.  Strange, very strange, this sudden formality.  While Knock Out did usually tack on a "sir" or a "commander" to the tail-end of his sentences, he always gave the words a flippant tone.

Well—not _always_.  A few times, late at night, when Ultra Magnus had passed by the ruby red grounder while he was on monitor duty, the smaller mech had offered a bleary "Commander Magnus" without sounding anything but sleepy.  But that was a far cry from acting like he was taking part in a military parade.

"What brings you here, Doctor?" Magnus asked cautiously.

"I'm here to report my progress, sir."

"Your progress."

"On our little protoform dilemma, sir. As your CMO, I've been exploring possible solutions and I believe I've made _significant_ progress."

"Ah."  Ultra Magnus thought he detected a certain amount of satisfaction under that carefully blank faceplate, perhaps a hint of a smile.  "Proceed, soldier."

 _"Well,"_ Knock Out said, sounding less like the perfect soldier and more like himself, "I was thinking about the _Harbringer,_ the Decepticon scouting ship that crashed on Earth.  It had several protoforms on board, in stasis—"

"It _did?"_ Ultra Magnus said sharply.  This was news to him.  "What happened to them?  Are they still viable?"

Knock Out paused.  "Ah, they're deceased, sir."

"I see.  What happened to them?"

A longer pause.  "Starscream used them to clone himself.  Sir."

Ultra Magnus stared.

Knock Out gave a slight shrug.  "Part of a ploy to offline Megatron.  It didn't work."

"I wouldn't have thought so, given that Megatron's still alive.  Were _all_ the protoforms . . . _used_ in this way?"

"Yes, sir.  And ultimately terminated by Megatron."

"I see." Ultra Magnus tried to keep the disgust out of his voice.  "Continue."

"Right . . ."  Knock Out seemed to have lost his thread of conversation, but he soon picked it up again.  "Oh, yes, so I was thinking about the _Harbringer_ and I asked myself, 'Knock Out, what other resources do we have that might _ease_ our current dilemma?' And then it hit me . . . The _Nemesis."_

"The Decepticon warship.  Are you saying there are protoforms aboard that as well?"

"No, sir, a warship can support a sufficient crew without needing protoforms as backups.  Nevertheless, I feel the _Nemesis_ holds the answer.  Sir."

Ultra Magnus' eyes narrowed.  "You do realize, soldier, that for the purpose of imprinting, corpses are not an appropriate replacement for a living Cybertronian or a non-sentient machine."

 _"Corpses?_   Seriously?  What do you take me for?"  For a moment Knock Out was just Knock Out, hands on his hips, indignity on his face. With an obvious effort, he pulled himself into a formal stance once more.  "As your CMO, let me assure you that I would _never_ advocate such a thing, sir.  Or allow it."

"Very well," Ultra Magnus said.  "Then what do you propose?"

Before the medic could answer, there was a tap at the door—more to alert the occupants than to request entry—and Optimus strode in.

"Ultra Magnus, my friend, are you ready to—" He broke off, seeing Knock Out. 

"Prime, sir." Knock Out was clearly using it as a title rather than a name.  This time his salute was  accompanied by a bowed helm.  Exactly what military protocol demanded of their respective ranks. 

"That is not necessary, Knock Out," Optimus said, glancing from the medic to Ultra Magnus.  Knock Out didn't move.

 _::I was about to call you,::_ Ultra Magnus sent.  _::He was waiting for me. In order to 'report his progress.'::_

 _::I see.::_   Optimus looked at Knock Out, who was still stiffly saluting.

"At ease, soldier," Ultra Magnus said for the second time that day, and Knock Out shifted accordingly, relaxing and lifting his head.  What was going on in that shiny red helm, Ultra Magnus wondered.  Knock Out had never acted like this before.  "Perhaps you'd like to explain the situation again now that Optimus is here."

"Yes, sir."  Knock Out turned to the leader of the Autobots.  "As Chief Medical Officer, I've been working to find a solution to our vehicular problem.  As I was telling Commander Magnus, I think the _Nemesis_ might hold the key.  It's a largely untapped resource with vast amounts of information, including medical journals and scientific notes, stored on its mainframe.  In addition, the long-range sensors would detect incoming ships, which would be useful to our overall mission."

"That may be so," Optimus said slowly.  "However, we disabled the warship's computer systems before we left it."

"I have every confidence that Team Prime can get it up and running again, sir."

"Is that truly the course you wish to pursue, Knock Out?" Prime asked.

"The ship is a derelict; we have as much of a right to it as anyone."

Optimus closed his eyes for a minute. "What I meant was, we could focus on the supply of vehicles that we _know_ we can obtain rather than chasing after mere possibilities.  Would that not be the better path?"

"Certainly the _easier_ path, sir," Knock Out said, and the perfect neutrality of his voice spoke volumes.

_::What do you think, Ultra Magnus?::_

_::Raiding a Decepticon warship on the off chance of finding something useful to this specific situation? Poor use of resources.::_

"Knock Out." Optimus Prime's voice was as calm as ever.  "As much as I appreciate your diligence, I'm afraid we must allow General Bryce's visit."

"As you wish, Prime."  He stared straight ahead—this put his gaze at waist-level on Optimus.  "Obviously I don't have any control over the whole of Cybertron.  Just the little bits that fall under my jurisdiction."

"And you won't allow Bryce to observe the hot spot even if that is _the only hope of survival_ for the protoforms?" Magnus demanded.

"All I can say—and I say it with _all due respect—_ is that I wouldn't allow it without exploring every other avenue first. If I allowed it at all.  Sir."

"Knock Out." Prime vented a sigh.  "No one would gain by the death of the protoforms.  A sad end for 'the first peace-time generation', as you put it.  Is that really what you want?"

"Nothing about this is _what I want,"_ the medic said, sharpness edging his voice.  "And yet here I am, burdened with these decisions."

"Perhaps, then . . ." Optimus paused, then continued, and his tone was as firm as it was mellow.  "Perhaps, then, the burden should be lifted from your shoulders."

"I see." Knock Out's lips pressed in a thin line.  "May I ask, sir, why you're _demoting_ me?"

"Knock Out . . ."

_::Ultra Magnus.  How can I make him understand that this is not a demotion?::_

Ultra Magnus repressed a sigh.  _::You don't need to demote him, but at the very least you need a reprimand to clear him out of the way.::_

_::Can I not simply . . . go around him?  I am reluctant to upset him further.::_

Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots, had led the fight in the war.  But never as a common soldier, Ultra Magnus reminded himself.  He had dealt extensively with generals and higher-ups, but purely in matters of warfare. Not in the million little matters of bureaucracy that held the army together.

_::As CMO, he's within his rights to deny anyone access to the hot spot. So, you must either strip him of the rank entirely or judge him temporarily unable or unwilling to fulfill his duties.::_

Optimus gave a small, reluctant grimace. _::If that is what is necessary, that is what I shall do.::_

_::Prime. Wait.::_

Ultra Magnus looked down at Knock Out, standing there, waiting for an answer.  Hands behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart, helm straight forward, despite the fact that he couldn't look the taller bots in the eye that way.  For once, a perfect soldier. Ultra Magnus' processor whirred as he considered everything he had seen that morning.

Knock Out, saluting and standing at attention, emphasizing that there was a chain of command, and he was part of it.

Knock Out, waiting for Magnus, ready with a report so that he couldn't be accused of shirking his responsibilities or dereliction of duty.

Knock Out, repressing his sometimes fiery, always flippant personality under a neutral, painfully respectful demeanor, so that he couldn't be accused of insubordination.

Knock Out, referring to himself as CMO over and over, a claim that Ultra Magnus had not denied.

Knock Out, who had, in the politest possible way, boxed in Ultra Magnus.

The fact that Magnus saw the manipulation did not mean that he could escape it. The time to strip Knock Out of his rank had been two dozen "sirs" ago, if not farther back. Rank was not something to be given on whim, then snatched away the moment it became inconvenient. Optimus, from what he'd told Magnus the previous night, had promoted Knock Out to CMO primarily out of pity . . . but promote him he had. If Knock Out's rank didn't mean anything, then neither did anyone else's.

And that was unacceptable.

_::You can't get around him, Optimus.::_

_::Pardon?::_

_::Subverting him would be to throw the command structure into jeopardy and to undermine your_ own _authority.  And to reprimand him, at this stage, would be . . . unfair.  He is performing his duties, as much as we may not agree with his interpretation of them.::_

There was a pause.

"You are not being demoted, Knock Out," Optimus said.  "However, if you wished to voluntarily delegate your responsibilities to others, you might find it a relief—"

"No. Thank you, sir.  But no."

" . . . very well."

"The _Nemesis_ , sir?" Knock Out said after a stretch of awkward silence.  "A team of Autobots might be able to get the computer up and running, if they had the right skills.  Surely it's worth looking into?"

"Possibly.  Yes.  I suppose we must indeed . . . explore every avenue," Optimus said, though with some reluctance.  "I understand Wheeljack has some talent with electronics."

"When he's not blowing them up," Ultra Magnus muttered.

"Ah yes, _Wheeljack."_   Knock Out looked thoughtful.  "Perhaps if he were paired up with a more responsible and less . . . explosion-prone Autobot. Bumblebee, for example."

"Possibly.  Bumblebee, or Arcee."

"Bumblebee has the advantage of being a scout, sir.  He can find his way around the ship."

This was a point.  During the final assault on the _Nemesis,_ Ultra Magnus' team had become disoriented several times in the maze of identical corridors.  But he was leaving the final decision up to Prime on this one.  He looked at the Autobot leader.

"Very well, Knock Out," Optimus said after some reflection.  "Please inform Wheeljack and Bumblebee that they will be briefed for an upcoming mission."

"Hardly necessary, sir.  They return tomorrow."


	11. Chapter 11

As Knock Out had anticipated, Prime and Magnus were not overly amused to discover that the medic had pre-emptively sent Wheeljack and Bumblebee to the _Nemesis_.  Knock Out, on the other hand, was _thoroughly_ amused—the expressions on their faces!—although he hid it well.  An extended but fairly routine round of "Very sorry, sir, I didn't think to ask, sir, I _do_ technically outrank them, sir, next time I'll confer with you beforehand, sir," had eventually satisfied his two superiors. 

Yes, the whole performance had been a bit tedious, but he'd successfully broken the news of Wheeljack and Bumblebee's absence—which would have been noticed sooner or later _anyway_ —while protecting his position in the Autobot army.  Or crew?  They called themselves a _team,_ but that sounded so _sporty._

"Rah rah, go Autobots!" Knock Out sang out, transforming and speeding through the halls.  He left an impressive skid of tar in the common room (as the bots called their makeshift lounge) as he squealed to a halt.  Bulkhead and Arcee not only looked up as he transformed, but also shifted together to hide the table behind them;  when they saw it was Knock Out, they relaxed and stepped apart again.

Knock Out smelled trouble in progress and was appropriately intrigued.  "And what are yooou doing?"

"Nothing!  Not anything special.  Just fixing some . . . stuff," Bulkhead said, guilt written all over his broad face.

 _"Someone_ sat on one of the handheld scanners," Arcee said, a slight quirk of her lips suggesting she wasn't sure whether to be more annoyed or amused.

"It was an accident!" Bulkhead protested.

"Yeah, Arcee, it could've happened to anyone!" came Miko's voice.  Knock Out looked around and located her standing near Bulkhead's elbow. Jack was sitting on the table pretending he knew enough about Cybertronian circuitry to help fix the machine.  Adorable. 

"Well, don't let me stop you."  Knock Out moved over to the table, resting his arms on it.

"Hey." Miko elbowed Jack in the ribs.  "Did I ever tell you that Knock Out is my arch-nemesis?"

"Only . . . a lot," Jack said.  "Like maybe a thousand times or so."

He cast a cautious glance at the shiny red mech. _Jack_ knew that the whole "arch-enemy" thing was just some elaborate game to Miko, but had she ever bothered to explain the rules to Knock Out?  A game that involved shouting insults up at a twenty-foot tall ex-Decepticon just seemed kind of chancy, and no, Jack was _not_ a 'Jackrabbit' for saying that, no matter what Miko said!  But then again, Raf seemed okay with Knock Out too—not _friends_ with him, but not scared of him either—so maybe the former 'Con really wasn't a danger anymore.

 _Anyway,_ Jack thought, _it's not like he's gonna do anything with Arcee and Bulkhead around.  And as long as Miko doesn't do anything dumb—_

"Your time has come, Decepticreep!  Prepare to meet your maker!"  Miko charged across the table, aiming a roundhouse kick at the red bot.

"Miko!" Jack yelped.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Arcee tense.  Bulkhead just looked resigned.

Knock Out shifted to get a better view of the human who had just kicked the silver metal of his elbow joint.  "Nice job, fleshie.  I almost felt that."

"C'mon, put 'em up!" She feinted and shadowboxed.

"Shoo, fly, don't bother me."

"What?  Disengage the enemy?  Neveeeer!"  She punched him in the arm, then winced and tried to shake the pain out of her hand.  _"Ow."_  

"Miko," Arcee started, frowning at Bulkhead, "stop pestering Knock Out."

"Not until he shows some _fight!_   Rawr!"  

 _Did she just ask a Decepticon to show some fight?_ Jack thought numbly, watching Miko kick at the Cybertronian again.  Her foot swung within inches of his shiny red finish but—Jack felt clammy with relief—didn't actually make contact.  Knock Out still hadn't moved.

"Shoo," he repeated, his optics half-closed and his voice firm.

The girl stood back, crossing her arms.  "What's _with_ you today?  Did your fun-tank spring a leak?"

"I'm shocked that you think a reliable, harmless, _responsible_ Autoboticon such as myself would do anything so gauche as to squash a little organic bug." Knock Out leaned forward, smiling a little too sweetly.  "I'm sure Commander Magnus has taught me better than _that._ Well. _Fairly_ sure . . ."

"Hey Miko," Jack said hastily, "can you help me untangle these wires?"

Miko grumbled under her breath, but she walked over to assist.  "Well, that was a bummer," she complained to Jack.  "Usually he swats back or something."

"He swats _back?_   Miko, _that is not a good thing._ Have you seen the length of his claws?  Have you seen how they're, you know, _incredibly sharp?"_

"Relax, Jackrabbit, it's no big deal."

"I just don't think Bulkhead would be very happy about it if you got hurt," Jack said, trying a different tack.

"Look, _you_ may have the mom-bot for a partner but I landed a _Wrecker._   And he knows a little danger adds some spice to life!"

"Arcee is not the mom-bot," Jack retorted.  He glanced over at the Cybertronian;  Knock Out had at last deigned to help fix the datapad and was pointing out something on the main circuit board as Bulkhead handed him a tiny soldering iron.  Arcee joined in the conversation from time to time, but mostly she watched the other two bots, and her focus became more intent whenever Knock Out happened to glance towards the two humans.

Okay, she could be a little over-protective.  But she was _not_ the mom-bot.

"I'll bet she told you he was a big scary 'Con, didn't she?" Miko said smugly.  "That's why you're so scaaared."

"I'm not scared, I'm sensible!"

She crooked her hands into claws and hunched her shoulders. "Oooo, he's going to eeeat you, ooooo—"

"What _are_ you little skinjobs doing over there?" Knock Out set down the soldering iron to gaze at them.  "If you're about to purge your tanks, Miko, be kind enough to face away from me."

Miko opened her mouth, and Jack could just picture her telling him exactly what they'd been talking about.  So he jumped in first.

"Hey!  So!" The red and black optics shifted to him.  Jack let his arms swing uncomfortably. "Sooo, how are you liking Team Prime?"

"The atmosphere is very congenial," Knock Out said, looking amused.

"That's good. Cool."  Jack had no idea why he felt so embarrassed, but Miko's stifled giggles definitely were _not_ helping.  "Must be nice for everyone, having a medic around and, uh . . . um . . ."

He broke off because Knock Out was pointing a very sharp index finger at him, and despite being far from his reach, that fact made Jack very, very uncomfortable.

"I know you from somewhere," Knock Out said, his gun-metal grey finger waving a bit as he took in the human from head to toe.

"Ahem."  Arcee raised an eyebrow.  "Jack, this is Knock Out.  Knock Out, this is Jack.  My human partner who has been around for years and whom you've seen _many times."_

"Yes, _yes._   But I know him from somewhere else."  Knock Out leaned his chin on his hand, contemplating the boy.

"Maybe the time you and your friends kidnapped us and used us as hostages for the Omega Lock," Jack said, crossing his arms.

"No, that's not it. "

"Or when you almost skewered me with a giant _drill_ on the _Nemesis."_

Knock Out continued to stare at him as though he were a puzzle to be solved.  "Nnnnooo . . ."

"Or when you broke into a street race and almost killed me and Bumblebee."

Knock Out looked mildly surprised.  "That was you?"

Jack stared at him open-mouthed, offended.

"It beats me how you can watch so much TV and still be so bad at ID-ing humans, Knock," Bulkhead said.

"So much?  We can't even get a signal up here," the medic complained.  "Anyway, they film them from down here," Knock Out leaned over to hold his hand near the floor, "whereas I'm looking down at the top of their furry little heads from up here."  He raised his hand to his own eye level.  "The real question is how Optimus and Ultra Magnus manage to tell them apart.  Myself, I go by the voices a lot."  This seemed to draw Knock Out's attention back to Jack.  "I'll remember where I've seen you.  Sooner or later."

"Great.  Terrific."  The medic would realize he was mistaken eventually, Jack hoped.  Unless Knock Out was thinking of the time he'd been hit by that train in the subway?  Jack had just been along for the ride, though, it wasn't like he'd personally aimed the train at him or anything. Whatever. If Knock Out was really that bad at identifying humans, he was probably thinking of someone else entirely.  Jack hoped so. There was just something unnerving about that searching look . . .

Footsteps in the corridor prompted Bulkhead and Arcee to once again close ranks in front of the broken scanner.  They exchanged guilty glances as Ultra Magnus entered.  To Jack, the strange part was not the appearance of the big blue and white Autobot, but the fact that he was carrying . . .

_"Mom?!"_

"Jack,  Miko."  June Darby looked from one to the other from her perch on Ultra Magnus' hand, her lips pressed in a thin line and a grim look in her eyes that Jack knew all too well.  "I want the truth and I want it right now.  Do you have _any idea_ where Rafael is?"

"Mom . . . I . . . no, he's got the flu, remember?" Jack sputtered. 

Miko nodded in agreement.  "He had to miss the field trip and everything.  I told him I'd take lots of pics for him, though."

"He does _not_ 'got the flu'," June fumed. "He told his mother he was sleeping over at _our_ house, Jack.  She came over because he forgot his backpack and I said you were out getting burgers." She sighed in frustration and worry.  "He's not at his house, he's not at our place, he's not with Ratchet, and if he's not _here_ . . ."  She rubbed her hand down her face.  "Where could he BE?"

"Rafael—you mean Raf?" asked Knock Out.  "He's with Bumblebee, of course."  He looked from June to Commander Magnus.  "Why?  Is there a problem with that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Jack's part of this chapter was originally written from Knock Out's POV, I can offer this insight into Knock Out's mind:
>
>> Miko screwed her face up dramatically. "That's just what you would say, you _fiend!"_ She darted over, shadow boxing, and feinted a kick at his arm.
>> 
>> Normally Knock Out would have flicked his fingers at her or feinted back or, had Bulkhead not been present, shoved her away (GENTLY; despite what some bots thought he DID understand that the squishies were fragile. He was careful only to knock them over a bit, at most. Maybe flatten them against a hard surface with his palm if he was feeling particularly playful.)
> 
> Knock Out, ladies and gentlemen. 


	12. Chapter 12

There was, apparently, a problem with that.

"How could you think this was acceptable?  How could you not have _mentioned_ it?" Ultra Magnus slammed his palms against his desk, making the datapads jump.

"I didn't think it was important!" Knock Out protested, spreading his hands.  "Bumblebee always totes his human around when he's on Cybertron, doesn't he? It's expected!"

"And _why_ was he on Cybertron?" June demanded, pacing the desk.  "For that matter, how did he get to Cybertron?"

"I bridged him here.  Bee said—and I agreed—that his computer skills would be an asset—"

"And I will be having a long talk with Bumblebee when he returns, be assured of that.  But Knock Out." Disappointment and anger simmered somewhere under Prime's words, and Knock Out was not sure which made him cringe.  "You truly did not see a problem with sending Raf into danger?"

"There's no danger, it's just—"

"Oh no, no danger at all." Ultra Magnus' optics were blazing a brighter blue than usual. "A week's drive from here, out of range of our communicators, on an abandoned Decepticon vessel.  What could go wrong?"

"If you'll just let me explain—"

"You can't explain away how you sent a child into harm's way," June Darby said, clenching her hands around the turquoise fabric covering her arms.

"But he's not really a child," Knock Out objected.  "Look, I wouldn't have sent Miko out there, but—"

June buried her face in her hand.  "Miko is _older_ than Raf!"

"Yes, but Miko is a youngling and Raf isn't."  He looked up at Optimus and Ultra Magnus, saw no sympathy there, and dropped his optics to stare at Magnus' hook instead, hands gripping the sides of the chair.  "Like Smokescreen and Bumblebee.  They came from the same cohort, they're the same age, but Bumblebee is _clearly_ older. _"_

Optimus' sigh seemed to last forever and the anger in his blue optics had been superseded by exhaustion as he gazed down at the medic.  Another surge of guilt syruped through Knock Out's systems, only to be burned off by a roil of anger.  These weren't even Decepticon concepts, damn it, they were _Cybertronian concepts._   Maybe there wasn't an Earth word that was quite the equivalent to the Cybertronian term for "the sum of chronological age and maturity and the amount of slag a bot's been through", but that wasn't _his_ fault. They had no right to look at him that way.

"If you can't understand the simple necessity of keeping civilians out of harm's way," Ultra Magnus was saying.

"Oh yes, I can see why you wouldn't want Raf on the _Nemesis_ compared to, oh, every _other_ time he's  been on the _Nemesis_ ," Knock Out snapped. "Problem number one, no Decepticons on board trying to kill him, how dull.  Problem number two, no chance of the warship crashing, becoming sentient and trying to offline him, et cetera.  Problem number three, he's accompanied by two Autobot warriors, which I know goes against the Autobot ideal of 'throw the squishies into danger, I'm sure it will turn out all right somehow'—"

"Knock Out."  Prime's voice wasn't loud, wasn't even sharp, but there was a timbre in it, an underlying authority, that stopped Knock Out as effectively as any roadblock.  "Those incidents were precipitated by necessity.  We were at war.  Sending our human friends into danger was never something I did lightly."

"Sending under-equipped personnel on a _pleasure jaunt_ is completely different," Ultra Magnus agreed.

"Hardly a pleasure jaunt, _sir,_ and I didn't 'send' him, he asked to go.  He _begged_ to go."

June stopped her pacing to glare up at him.  "And as the adult in that situation, you should've said no!"

"He is with Bumblebee!" He enunciated each syllable as he leaned forward.  "In perfectly safe servos!"

"Bumblebee is not immune from lapses in judgment," Optimus said in his quiet rumble.

Ultra Magnus nodded, and if he'd been a smaller bot the nod could have been described as 'prim.' "There's an occurrence of illegal street racing in his file, definitely not acceptable. And although Jack did not suffer any permanent damage in that fracas, the fact remains—"

"Wait.  _What?"_ June Darby swung around and craned her neck back to confront Ultra Magnus.  "What's this about Jack and _illegal street racing?"_

"It was several years ago, Nurse Darby," Optimus broke in.  "I'm sure Jack has matured since the . . . incident."

"You and me, Optimus, are going to have a talk about this 'incident'.  And you." She gave Knock Out a narrow look.  "Bumblebee's a great bot, but he has his blind spots.  I wouldn't be surprised if it was his idea to take Raf along in the first place!"

"It was _not_ Bumblebee's idea," Knock Out denied.  Regardless of whether or not it was true, he knew where his loyalties lay.  "And it's perfectly normal for humans in the transitional growth stages to branch out and explore—"

"By going on dates or sneaking into R-rated movies," June said. "Not by running off to explore warships on alien planets!"

"That's not what your cultural artifacts say!"

"Knock Out."  Optimus sounded even more tired.  "I believe we have already had some discussions regarding the veracity of human television serials."

The former Decepticon crossed his arms.  "Some of them were movies."

"Knock Out," Ultra Magnus growled, stretching the final vowel.  Never had the medic heard his name spoken in such a variety of unappealing ways in such a short span of time.

Optimus held up a hand to silence his Second-in-Command.  "Knock Out, in light of your recent lapse in judgment, you are relieved of your duties until further notice."

Knock Out didn't say anything; it wasn't like he hadn't seen this coming. The only surprise here was that Prime was delivering the blow rather than the Commander.  Still, his sensor net felt strangely disconnected from his frame as he listened.

"I'm confident this will be a temporary arrangement.  I do feel that we have, perhaps, neglected to provide you with a proper grounding in human culture.  I am sure we can remedy that before you return to your post." Optimus had the gall to _smile,_ like he was expecting the medic to gush his thanks _._ Knock Out poured all his energy into keeping his expression neutral. 

"Doctor."  Knock Out's attention snapped back to Ultra Magnus.  "You are confined to quarters until further notice, understood?"

"Yes sir."

"Comm link off."

"Yes sir."

"Ratchet will assume your duties during your . . . leave of absence."

"Yes sir."  He fought the desire to slip in a 'yes, my liege' just to get under the Commander's plating. But Magnus had won the final hand, he'd just have to live with that.

"You will not make any attempt to contact General Bryce."

"No sir."

"Or to hinder him."

"No sir." 

Magnus leaned back, satisfied with his victory.  Knock Out had a vague impression of Optimus giving his Second a look of reproof— _mild_ reproof, because this was, after all, Prime—but the medic kept his attention focused on Commander Magnus.  It was easier.

"Sir."  _You won, look, I'm acknowledging it. Please listen to me._   "When will Bryce arrive?"

"That is not your concern, soldier."

"If you could wait until Bumblebee and Wheeljack return, it might render his visit unnecessary.  Tomorrow.  They'll be back late tomorrow.  I preset the ground bridge."

"I repeat, it is not your concern.  Bryce is already impatient."

"Just one more day, Commander.  I strongly believe they'll find something worthwhile. In fact, I'm sure of it."

Magnus eyed him.  "You're sure, are you?"

Knock Out relaxed a little.  He had lost the battle, but he fully intended to win the war.  _"Very_ sure." He smiled.  _"Sir."_


	13. Chapter 13

It would have been nice to think that Knock Out's concern for the protoforms occupied his thoughts, overriding all other concerns.  It would also have been untrue. 

Despite not seeing eye to eye with Ultra Magnus (literally _or_ figuratively), he was confident that the Commander would be willing to stave off Bryce for a few days, even on a gamble.  And Knock Out knew this was one gamble which would have a massive payout.  No, upon reflection, the pre-forms and protoforms were not in any more danger than before. 

This left Knock Out free to spend his time focusing on other pleasant topics, like being demoted and confined to quarters.  The first instance was humiliating, the second was boring.  The boredom was currently his top concern.

"Why didn't I stock up on datapads when I had the chance?  I have nothing to _read,"_ he lamented, wandering from the bedroom to the main room and back again.  No private washroom in his quarters, sadly, although he did keep a selection of waxing and buffing supplies here.  But after a few hours had passed, he had been forced to admit that even the most gorgeous and deserving of chassis could only be buffed and polished for so long.  And his supply of wax really _was_ running low.

"Hmm . . ." He tapped his finger to his chin as he peered into the cupboard that housed his cosmetic supplies.  Everything was neatly arranged, jars of carnauba wax stacked here, a perfectly folded pile of polishing rags there, and two little hooks on the inside of the door to hold his buffer.  After a moment, he started pulling everything out (except the buffer) and setting them on the sideboard.  He could take inventory, maybe find an even more efficient way to store everything . . .

He was just holding up a tattered cloth between two claws, eyeing it critically, when the door chime went off. 

"It's open," the medic called.  The automated door ground open at its usual snail's pace, but Smokescreen squeezed through the gap before it was even halfway open. 

"Hey, K.O., I just heard what happened!  At least, I heard _something_ happened, but nobody seems to know what except Ultra Magnus, and he's not talking.  Are you okay?  Is Raf okay?  Bulkhead said it had something to do with Raf."

"Fine on both counts.  Raf's with Bee."

Smokescreen's shoulders slumped forward as he loosed a sigh of relief.  "Oh, _that's_ all right, then." 

Knock Out felt vindicated.

"I thought you might be hungry, so I brought you this."  Smokescreen proffered an energon cube.

"Oh . . . thank you." He couldn't keep the surprise off his face as he took it. Raw energon was abundant on Cybertron, but currently their only means of processing it was one small portable converter, operated by a hand-crank.  Since they all processed their own energon—and since Smokescreen complained the loudest about the tedious task—the gift a generous one.

"It's no biggie.  So is Raf on the _Nemesis_?  I guess that's why you're grounded, huh?"

"Grounded?"

"Shut in here."

"Ah.  Yes.  Confined to quarters."

"That's not fair.  It wasn't your fault."  Smokescreen frowned, his mouth forming a little pout.  "Should I turn myself in?"

"For what?  Why?"

"Well, as president of the Cabal," Smokescreen saluted, Autobot style, with his fingers held stiff, shading his eyes, "I was the one responsible for sending Bee and Wheeljack out there in the first place."

Ridiculous brat.  Really now.  "No, don't tell them anything, Mr. President.  They don't know about the Cabal; let's keep it that way."

"But then you're just stuck in here.  That's so boring!" 

"I'll tell you what, you can bring me something to keep me entertained," Knock Out said graciously.  He was about to ask for some datapads when he had another idea.  "Dig up that game of Bumblebee's, I'll see if I can fix it.  A little thanks for making the journey."

"What about Wheeljack?"

Knock Out blinked. "What about him?"

" . . . right."

Smokescreen fetched the game and left after a few not so subtle hints from the medic.  Knock Out finished reorganizing his cupboard and had just turned his attention to the game when someone knocked on the door.

"Come in."  Knock Out pushed the table and chairs back to make room for Bulkhead.  Had to be him.  He never could remember to ring the chime.

"Hey, Knock.  Uh, you okay?  Ultra Magnus kind of dragged you out of there."

"Thank you for reminding me," Knock Out said drily.  "I'm fine.  And before you ask, Raf's fine too."

"Oh, good.  'Cause I heard some crazy rumor that he's on the _Nemesis."_

" . . . why are you here?"

"Well, I figured you'd be hungry, so . . . tada!" He held out an energon cube.

Knock Out's lips twitched a little as he accepted it.  "Much appreciated."

"Miko wanted to come too but . . ." Small flakes of green paint twirled to the floor as Bulkhead scratched the back of his helm.  "Big Blue said no."

"So apparently I should be thanking him too," he said lightly.  Really? What did Magnus think he was going to _do_ to the human brats, eat them?

"She sent along this, though."  Bulkhead held out something small and glowing, contained in a frilled metallic wrapper.

"An energon treat?"

"Yeah, she stole it from Ultra Magnus' latest batch."

"Well."  It seemed rather large compared to the scrawny glitch-mouse that was Miko and he found himself wondering how she'd carried it. It was also, he noted, covered in a fine layer of dirt, as though it had been dropped a few times in transition.  "Tell her that was very . . . enterprising."

"Will do.  And don't worry—I'm sure this will blow over soon." 

"Hmm, yes."  After Bulkhead left he stowed the energon cube under his berth and tossed the treat in the waste bin.  But he didn't bother closing his door.  Sure enough, by the time he returned Arcee was lingering in the doorway.

 _This is becoming quite the thoroughfare._   _I should open up a toll booth._

"Hey," Arcee said, then lapsed into silence as she held out an energon cube.  He accepted it in equal silence, invited her in with a gesture, and pushed the cube under his berth with the others. She had settled in a chair by the time he returned to the main room.

"Optimus and Ratchet filled me in," she said.  "On everything."

So she was acting as Third-in-Command for once.  "I'm sure that was a meeting full of interesting expletives, Warrior."

She lifted an eyebrow, suspicious, as though she suspected he was mocking her rather than simply addressing her by her rank.  Autobots. There was no fathoming them.

"Ratchet did say something about reformatting you into a hang glider," she said, "but they're more frustrated than angry.  You could bring these things up before they reach a crisis point, you know."

His eyes narrowed a little.  "They haven't _reached_ a crisis point."

"Fast approaching one, wouldn't you say?"

"No.  I have—" He caught himself. "—every confidence in Team Prime's ability to cobble together a last minute, feel-good solution."

"One currently located on the _Nemesis_?"  She crossed her arms.  "Don't give me the faux surprised look; you wouldn't have sent them there if you didn't have something specific in mind.  So what is it?  Something left over from Shockwave's cloning experiments?"

"I like how you immediately assume that anything useful would belong to _Shockwave,"_ he snorted.  "And, no, despite your justifiable respect for Decepticon engineering, I didn't have any _particular_ device in mind.  Sorry to disappoint."

She still looked suspicious, but shrugged.  "Fine. Don't tell.  Oh, by the way . . . June might come by at some point."

"June?  Oh—the human femme."

"Right.  She's interested in the kind of exploits the kids have gotten up to . . . " She cast a glance at him.

"Unfortunately I have nothing to share with her in that respect," he said blandly, "having been on the other side for most of the war."  You scratch my back, I scratch yours.

"Right," Arcee said again, eyeing him.  She paused on the threshold.  "Try talking to someone."

He leaned in the doorway once she was gone, rolling his optics.  Ah yes, 'talk about your feelings,' the Autobot answer to every problem.  He could just picture their training manual:

 _Scenario:_   A forced march will allow you to reach a beleaguered city-state before the Decepticons surround it, but you will lose some bots in the process.  A regular pace will keep all members of your platoon alive, but you may arrive too late.  What do you do?

 _Answer:_   Talk about your feelings.

 _Scenario:_   The Decepticons have flanked you.  What do you do?

 _Answer:_   Talk about your feelings.

 _Scenario:_   A Decepticon missile is about to take off your face.  What do you do?

 _Answer:_   Talk about your feelings.

"Knock Out," came a familiar, grim voice.  The red grounder looked up.

"Why, Commander Magnus, _sir,_ how good of you to darken my doorstep."  The Commander had brutally defeated him at his own game, but Knock Out found himself regarding the larger bot with a certain degree of, if not affection, then at least esteem.  For all his faults, Magnus had never yet tried to leverage Knock Out into replacing strategy with emotions.  "Come in.  I think you'll just fit."

"Hey, what am I?" a second voice asked, wry.  "Chopped liver?" 

Knock Out finally noticed June Darby, cupped in the palm of the Commander's good hand.  "Oh.  And you.  Yes.  Well, you can come in too."

Ultra Magnus did fit through the doorway.  Just.

June spoke first.  "First of all, I'm still furious with you for sending Raf to some Decepticon rattletrap," she began.  "Second, I brought some reading material for you."

Knock Out crouched and put out his palm, face down.  The pamphlets and books the human femme dropped onto his fingers were . . . well . . . human-sized.  He flipped one of the books open with a claw and found large, brightly colored, and informational pages regarding human reproduction and stages of growth. 

"Hmm, I'll be sure to squint my way through these," he lied.  He was never reading them ever.  Organic reproductive systems were appalling and oozed filth at every opportunity.  Except the system of the organic aerials. Eggs. Gooey on the inside, perhaps, but at least the exterior was aesthetically pleasing.

"What's this?" Ultra Magnus interjected, picking up the gamepad from the table. 

"A game of Bumblebee's, Commander.  I'm fixing it."

"Hrm."  Apparently this fell far enough into the category of not-fun to satisfy him.  "Good.  Keep yourself out of trouble."  _For once_ was the unspoken post-script.

 _"Speaking_ of trouble," June said with authority in her voice, "I'm _still_ waiting to hear more about this illegal street race that my son was involved in.  I understand you were one of the competitors, Knock Out; maybe you can shed some light on the matter."

 _"Moi?"_   Knock Out put on a regretful expression.  "There's really nothing I can tell you, June Darby.  I spent most of the race trying to shoot out Bumblebee's tires."

"His tires?" Magnus said drily.

"Well, any part of him that was in my sights, really.  The point is, I didn't pause to grill him on who his passenger was and did he know he'd missed his curfew.  Really, I didn't even realize he had a passenger until quite late in the race."

"I realize that," the dark-haired human said.  "What I want to know is how many times was he out there, risking his life for an adrenalin rush?  How many races?  How many nights?"

"Only the one time, as far as I'm aware."

"Just as Optimus Prime said," Ultra Magnus said, faintly reproachful.

"It never hurts to check with a second source, Ultra Magnus," she said, relaxing.  "All right, I believe you.  Thank you, Knock Out."

He gave a gracious shrug.  "Of course."

"Knock Out."  Ultra Magnus looked down at him.  "General Bryce's visit will take place three days from now, after which you will be free to move about the base."

Three days.  Plenty of time.  "Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir."

"And you're to stay away from him while he's here."

"However will I bear it?" he said with a bit of a sneer.  "Am I to believe that you'll allow that skin-job—"

"Ex _cuse_ me, human in the room!"

"—to wander Cybertron even if we find more creative ways of acquiring vehicles?"

"That has yet to be determined," Ultra Magnus replied, his expression as neutral as it ever got—dour, but his eyebrows only lowered in his _default_ frown, not his _angry_ frown.  "There are various factors to be considered."

"Of course.  Aren't there always."

Ultra Magnus wheeled and attempted to pace, only to be hampered by the relatively small size of the room compared to his stature.  "Just remember to stay away from him, soldier," he growled.

"Reading you loud and clear, _Commander._   I'll resist the urge to rush the human, or whatever it is you're worried I'll do."

Magnus gave him a sharp look, but all he said was, "Good. I brought your ration," he added, pulling an energon cube out of a chest compartment.  "A _half_ ration."  He gave Knock Out a stern look, waiting for an objection or show of temper.

The red mech merely took it without comment.

"Three days," Ultra Magnus reminded him, clearly thrown by the lack of response.  "In your quarters."

"Yes, I understand," Knock Out said in a slow, patient tone that he knew would annoy the Commander.  "Threee," he drew out the word as he held up three digits, "daaays."  He made a circular motion with his hand to symbolize the sun.

"Thank you, Knock Out, that will be enough," Magnus said coldly.

"Yes _sir!"_   He gave a far too elaborate salute.  "Half rations the whole time, sir?"

"Yes." Ultra Magnus gave him a pre-emptive glare.  Knock Out just sighed showily.

"Is that healthy?  Three days on half your usual calories?  Or whatever you bots have?"  June looked concerned.

"Oh, don't worry.  I'll survive. _Somehow."_

The human looked even more worried;  Ultra Magnus did not.  "About the ground bridge.  You preset the controls for tomorrow morning, correct?"

"That's right."

"Then we'll talk again after Wheeljack, Bumblebee, and Raf return," he said. The red mech nodded.

"Goodbye, Knock Out," June called, still frowning slightly in concern.

Knock Out didn't reply, just closed the controls for the door so that it slowly slid closed after Commander Magnus. He had to rearrange the energon cubes under his berth to get the latest one to fit. Half rations indeed . . . 

He was not sure why the door chime surprised him, but it did.  Had Magnus forgotten something? "It's open."  He peered out as the door grated open.  "Ah. Prime."

"Just 'Optimus' is fine, Knock Out."  He sounded embarrassed.  "I was wondering if I might come in."

Knock Out looked from Prime to the doorway and back again.  The Autobot leader was not only taller than Ultra Magnus, but also a great deal bulkier.  At some point Prime had gone from "large" to "ridiculously huge", and even now he jammed in the hall in a ridiculous pose, forced to bend his head and shoulders down to avoid scraping the ceiling.

"I honestly don't know if you'd fit," the shiny red mech said at last.  "Maybe I'd better come out there.  If my leash extends that far, that is?"

This little repartee left Prime looking remorseful, and Knock Out felt slightly guilty and enormously satisfied.  Accepting the tacit permission, he slipped into the hallway.

"Knock Out," Prime said quietly, "I wanted to reassure you that what occurred today was . . . not personal.  It doesn't change anything in my optics, about you or your place here."

Knock Out wasn't sure if he was more baffled or fascinated by Prime's words.  What planet did he _live_ on where stripping someone of their rank wasn't personal? Starscream had been beaten half to death for his various assassination attempts on Megatron, but never _demoted,_ not until he utterly abandoned the _Nemesis._ And a slow tide of anger simmered through his circuits, too.  To lose a gambit was one thing; to be informed that your loss was unimportant was quite another. 

He kept his feelings off his face.  If nothing else, the Decepticon army had taught Knock Out how to kowtow. "Of course, Prime.  You have to act for the greater good _über alles_ , I understand that."

"That . . . is one way of putting it." The red and blue mech frowned.  He appeared to be studying Knock Out, although perhaps it was simply that he couldn't look anywhere except down, thanks to his hunched posture.  "It does not preclude me from valuing individuals, however."

Knock Out simply nodded.  Of course he was valuable; he was a medic.

His silence seemed to put the larger mech at a loss.  He leaned lower still, unfolding one massive hand.  An energon cube lay nestled in his palm, its dull grey metal offset by blue light glowing through the slots in the sides.  "I thought your energy levels might be running low."

"Ah, yes."  Knock Out looked at the cube for a second before picking it up and pulling it to his chest.  He did not feel up to fawning.  "Thank you."  And then, because he knew it would please the Prime, and because his slog back to his previous position had to start somewhere:  "Thank you, _Optimus."_

Optimus Prime's face lit up with that gentle smile of his and looked so close to patting Knock Out on the head that the medic hastily backed into his room. "Well, I'd better let you get on with things. Cybertron isn't going to rebuild itself, after all."

"No, sadly it will not."  The larger mech straightened as much as possible.  "We will talk again soon, my friend."

"You are not my friend," Knock Out muttered, but only after Prime's heavy footsteps had retreated into the distance.


	14. Chapter 14

"Hey Knock Out, we're back!" Bee said cheerfully, walking out of the glowing ground bridge with Raf on his shoulder and a crate carried in both servos. "We got the—Uh, Knock Out?"

The red bot wasn't in the monitor room, but a blue one was.  Arcee.  With one eyebrow raised and a very sarcastic look on her face.

Ohhh scrap.

"You'd better have an incredibly good explanation for this," she said.

"For this?" Bumblebee said, blue eyes wide.

"For what?" Raf asked with all the innocence he could muster.

"We just went out for a little jaunt, 'Cee," Wheeljack said.

She gave him a particularly unforgiving glare.  "Seriously?  That was the best you could do?"  Her gaze became more sympathetic as she looked at the boy perched on Bumblebee's shoulder.  "You okay, Raf?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine," he assured her, readjusting his glasses.  "I was with Bumblebee."

"You, ah, don't seem particularly surprised by . . . by the ground bridge," Bumblebee ventured.

"Knock Out spilled everything," the blue two-wheeler said.  "Or, correction:  he spilled everything except for what he sent you for and the time you'd be back.  _Somehow_ he confused midnight with mid-morning.  He said the ground bridge would open ten hours from now."

The three explorers exchanged glances.  "Well, you _still_ don't seem very surprised," Bumblebee said.

"Let's just say my suspicions were first aroused when Smokescreen begged me for the graveyard shift tonight.  And then again when Knock Out tried to sneak in here a half hour ago."

Wheeljack chuckled.  "I'll bet he wasn't happy about bein' caught out.  Wish I'd been a cyber-fly on the wall for that fight."

"It's funny you should mention 'caught out' and 'not happy'," Arcee said, crossing her arms and tilting her head.  "Do you see my face right now?  It's not a happy face."

Bumblebee quietly snuck out of the room as an argument began to brew between Arcee and Wheeljack.

Most of the Autobots' personal quarters were in a block on the east side of the building, but Knock Out had selected a room near the medical bay, on the west side.  Bumblebee had once asked him if he didn't feel, well, _lonely_ over there, all by himself, but the former 'Con had just laughed.

"I like it.  I need my space," he'd said, and the fact that he seemed to mean it just worried Bee further.

"Could you get the door chime, Raf?  My arms are full."  Bumblebee shifted so that Raf could reach the faintly glowing button.

"Sure, Bee."  The 'door chimes' were actually just standard doorbells, straight from Home Depot, jury-rigged to Autobot-sized buttons.  They were one of the first things Raf had made all by himself for the Autobots, and he enjoyed a moment of quiet pride as he heard the familiar series of notes play on the other side of the door.

"Who is it?" came Knock Out's voice.  Muffled.  Grumpy.

"It's me, Superbee!  The Bug who strikes in the night!" Bumblebee said overdramatically.

 _"Bumblebee!"_ the door began to slide open, moving slightly faster than a glacier.  "About . . ." One red optic peered out and sharp fingers shoved at the door, making no difference whatsoever in its speed.  "About time!  Is your little organic sidekick with you?"

Raf blinked a little at the question.  Usually Knock Out didn't remember him until he was looking straight at him and, after that, proceeded to ignore him unless Bumblebee was very, very insistent.  "I'm right here."  He waved tentatively.

"Thank Primus."  Knock Out sounded relieved. 

As soon as the door had opened far enough, he grabbed Bumblebee by the arm and hauled him inside . . . unbalancing Raf in the process.  Tripping backwards off the yellow and black Autobot's shoulder, Raf watched the world fall by in a rush of mute, undiluted terror until a silver hand snatched him out of the air.

"Oops!" Knock Out said.  "Got you."

 _"Knock Out!"_ Bumblebee said, finally registering what had happened.  "Be _careful,_ you could have killed him!  Raf, are you all right??"  He reached for the teenager, but Knock Out eluded him by stepping backwards, both hands cupped around Raf, like he was a moth trying to fly away.

"I _am_ careful!  I'm _always_ careful!" Raf heard him say from beyond the wall of metal fingers mazed around him.  Then they were pulling apart to reveal a long, flat surface ending in a drop off; he stepped out of Knock Out's hands onto the table. 

"All right, maybe I've been more careful at times," the red Cybertronian continued, "but you don't know what I've _been_ through lately."

"Raf, are you okay?" Bumblebee repeated, pushing past Knock Out.

"I'm fine," Raf said, smiling shakily.

"You see?  He's fine."  Knock Out looked down at Raf.  "Be sure to tell that to Optimus and Magnus before your mother induces them to string me up by my own circuitry."

A wave of terror washed over Raf.  "M-m-my mother's here?!"

"Yes," Knock Out said, then paused to think.  "No?  June Darby, that's the one I'm talking about."

"That's _Jack's_ mom!  I've told you this before.  If you ever listened—" Bumblebee said as Raf's heart rate gradually returned to normal.

"Human progenitors can have more than one child," Knock Out argued.  "Regardless, she's here and she's on the warpath because your human went to the _Nemesis_."

"But there was nothing there," Bumblebee said blankly. "I mean, it's totally abandoned."

"I know."

"And Raf's old enough and responsible enough—"

"Bumblebee.  Do you really think _I'm_ the one who needs convincing?"

Raf sat down on the edge of a datapad.  His guilt over lying and causing Ms. Darby to freak out was mitigated by a warm, fuzzy feeling in his stomach.  They really thought he was mature enough for an adventure that was sure to make Miko green with envy!  That felt good.

"I'm fine," he repeated.  "I'll tell them.  Sorry if you got into trouble over it."

Knock Out's optic ridges drew down, and if his expression was not quite hostile, the operative words were 'not quite'.  "I did indeed 'get in trouble' over it.  Copious amounts of trouble.  More trouble than your tiny processor can comprehend."

"Knock Out . . ." Bumblebee inserted himself between the red mech and the table, protective of his human partner.

"Maaaybe I should go find Jack's mom before she worries anymore," Raf suggested with a shade of nervousness in his voice.

"Good idea." Bumblebee held out his hand and carefully set the boy on the floor.

"I'm just telling the truth!" Knock Out insisted, but he slapped the door panel and let Raf into the hallway without any further complaints. 

"So what's all this about getting into trouble over Raf?" Bumblebee asked as the door slid closed again.

"Later."  The red mech made slight, downward, settling gestures with spread fingers. "I'll tell you later.  Where's Wheeljack?  Did he blow himself to smithereens?"

"He's busy getting chewed out by Arcee."

"Hmph. Been there, done that."  Knock Out waved away Wheeljack's troubles and tilted his head hopefully.  _"Please_ tell me the mission was a success."

"A huge success!"  Bumblebee heaved the crate onto the table and pulled the lid open.  "You really didn't skimp when it came to cosmetic supplies, huh?  We actually had to leave some behind; we couldn't carry them all.  But we brought back a little of everything."

Knock Out's face lit up as he gathered an armful of waxes, washes, and polishing cloths, literally pulling them to his chest.  "Ohhh, how I've dreamed of this day," he crooned, apparently addressing the canisters cradled in his arms.  Most of them were labeled in English, Spanish, German, or (in a few cases) Portuguese.  Cybertronian supplies were impossible to get anymore, but Knock Out had no qualms about using imports.

"Now remember, you promised to share," Bumblebee said, waggling a finger.

"I'll share, I'll share." Knock Out reluctantly let the supplies tumble back into the crate.  "Nice job, Spec Ops.  Now about the other thing . . . ?"  He turned away from the crate, leaning forward expectantly.

"The other thing.  Right."  Bumblebee dug a datastick out of his arm compartment and turned it over in his fingers.  "We found the console just fine . . ."

"Mm-hmm, mm-hmm, yes?"  Knock Out plucked the datastick out of Bumblebee's servos, his eyes dancing over the device as he twirled it in his fingers.

Bumblebee hesitated before blurting in a rush, "And we think that we can get the computer up and running in a few weeks."

Knock Out's jaw dropped and the datastick fell to the floor with a clatter.  "A few weeks?  A few _weeks?!"_

"Knock Out, I'm sorry, but it was heavily damaged.  We did what we could, okay?"

"No, not okay!  Not okay at all!"  Knock Out clutched his head, his fingers splayed around the sharp spike of his helm.

"Calm down, Wheeljack said he can fix it, it'll just take time," Bumblebee soothed, reaching out to pat the red grounder's arm.  But Knock Out jerked away.

"We don't have _time,_ Bumblebee!"  He paced a few steps before swirling around, eyes blazing.  "How could you do this to me?!"

Bumblebee took a step back, eyes cycling wide.  "How could I do what?" 

 _"Fail!"_ Knock Out all but screamed, foam flecking from his mouth as he nearly banged his helm against Bumblebee's.  "After I trusted you!"

"Okay, let's talk about trust! _"_ Bumblebee's voice rose and he wasn't retreating an inch.  "I can't believe you!  I dropped everything and ran off to the middle of nowhere on your say-so, and this is how you act?  You wouldn't even tell me why, but I went!  For you!  Because you asked me!"

"And did I ask you to haul your little _pet_ along or was that all your idea?  'Oh yes, Knock Out, it's all right.  Oh yes, Knock Out, he's old enough.'" 

"He's not a pet!  And he is old enough!"

"Like slag he is!" The red mech threw his arms in the air and stalked into the other room.

"Knock Out, you get back here and—Knock Out!" He pursued him in a rapid circuit around the berth before the red mech stomped furiously back into the main room, with Bumblebee following him like an angry shadow.  "Are you going to tell me what this is all about?"

"No," Knock Out snarled, "because it doesn't _matter_ anymore, just like it doesn't matter that I've been humiliated, just like it doesn't matter that I'm stuck here, just like it doesn't matter—"

The yellow and black bot grabbed his arm and Knock Out's own momentum swung him around.  "For once could you just tell me what's bothering you without all the dramatics?" Bumblebee said, somewhere between pleading and demanding.

"The dramatics?  The _dramatics?_   The DRAMATICS?" 

"Yes, the dramatics!" Bumblebee shouted, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him.  "The whole Decepticon I-can't-tell-you-but-I'll-blame-you-anyway THING that you do _all the time!"_

"Get your filthy Autobot hands off me before you scuff my paint!"

"Oh, wouldn't that be a tragedy!  You might have to dig into the two thousand kinds of beauty supplies you made me haul back!"  Bumblebee shoved the crate towards the shiny red medic, sending the box screeching across the table. 

Knock Out grabbed rim of the crate in both hands and hauled;  a glittering cascade of glass canisters and bright labels tumbled between them for a moment before splintering across the floor.  

"I didn't send you for the fragging supplies! I sent you for the FILE!!"

Bumblebee shielded his face before taking an aggressive step forward.  "I couldn't GET the file, the computer was BROKEN!"

"Well, you should've found a way to fix it, _Bumblebee!"_ Knock Out snarled back, somehow making his very name an insult.

"Would you calm DOWN?"

"Don't!" Knock Out raged, jabbing the Autobot with his finger. "Don't tell me what to do and don't tell me to calm down!  I'm perfectly— _ow!"_   He pivoted away, pulling his hand to his chest.

"What?  What is it _now?"_ When the medic just turned away further, Bumblebee crossed his arms.  "You broke a nail, didn't you?"

"I don't have nails, I have _claws,"_ Knock Out hissed, his right hand curled in towards his chassis and his left hand cradling it.  After a moment he turned around, a pout on his face has he held out his servo to show where the narrow tip of his claw had snapped, leaving a thin trickle of energon dabbling down his finger.

Bumblebee rolled his optics to the ceiling and heaved a sigh.  "I've never understood," he said, rummaging through a drawer and picking out a cloth and a small bottle, "why you have such impractical hands."

"They aren't impractical, they're beautiful, elegant, and finely tuned.  _Ow."_

Bumblebee stopped dabbing with the cloth to look at him. "You _know_ it needs antiseptic."

"Did I _say_ it didn't need antiseptic?  I didn't. I just said ow.  Because it _hurts,"_ he added in a self-pitying tone.

Bumblebee shook his head as he reached for a roll of holo-foil bandages.  "How did you ever survive on the battlefield?"

"I dodged a lot." He watched narrowly as Bumblebee's servo orbited his finger, pulling a comet tail of silver bandages after it.  "Not so tight."

"Fine." He rolled his hand the other way to loosen them.  "So what happened?"

Knock Out's fingers curled inward a little and his hand shifted as though he might draw it back.  But he didn't.  He kept his focus on the silver bandages as he started to talk.


	15. Chapter 15

"He's _suspiciously_ upbeat," Ultra Magnus had informed Ratchet the previous night.  _"Despite_ being on half-rations."

All Ratchet could think this morning, as he watched Knock Out leaning his chin on his palm and glowering into a cube of energon, was that if this was Magnus' "upbeat", then he'd hate to see "depressed."  As for half-rations, well, there'd been two drained cubes on the table when Ratchet sat down, and Knock Out had since refilled his own cube and pushed a third one, full, in front of Ratchet.  There was a waste bin off to the side, full of broken glass.  Ratchet hadn't asked.

"So," Ratchet said in a neutral voice, shifting in his seat.

"Yes, _doctor?"_   The red grounder's optics glittered with resentment.  Yep, this was going to be a fun conversation.

"I passed Bumblebee in the hall.  He said he'd been back a while."

"Yes."

"And that he was going to have a word with Optimus."

Knock Out didn't respond, just took another chug from his cube.  Despite the way he was swilling it his drink was not, as Ratchet had initially feared, high grade; the soothing fragrance suggested some kind of nickel alloy had been stirred into his energon—taenite, perhaps.

Well, Knock Out didn't want small talk, fine.  Ratchet would be blunt.  That was his nature anyway.  "I'm here because I need copies of all your files regarding the hot spot and the pre-forms."

Knock Out stared at him for a long moment.  "Of course."  He moved over to the desk and started digging through the datapads stacked there, his thin claws clicking against plastic casing.

"You hurt yourself?" Ratchet asked, noticing a bandage wrapped around the ex-Decepticon's index finger.

"Yes."  A stack of datapads was slapped in front of Ratchet, and Knock Out's expression dared him to inquire further.

"You can stop acting like a bratty newbuild any time now," Ratchet said, fed up.  _"None_ of this is my fault."

Knock Out's eye twitched slightly, but he didn't answer.  Perhaps comparing the red mech to a youngling hadn't been the most tactful thing to do, considering the circumstances.  Ratchet was reminded of the red-eyed, resentful stare that had persisted in the background that time he'd been Megatron's prisoner, just before the Autobots had taken the _Nemesis._

 _Just before Knock Out switched sides,_ a little voice in his head helpfully supplied.  He shushed it.  Knock Out had been working for the Autobot cause for over a year with every sign of contentment.  Or the Cybertronian cause.  Whatever.  He was just angry.  

In the same way that a raging, two hundred-acre forest fire was "just" a fire.

Ratchet settled his hand around the empty cube in front of him, tilting it to watch the last drops of liquid gathering.  He was not good at this.  It should be Optimus here.  Optimus would know how to cut through the fuming silence.  Optimus would know how to make Knock Out feel appreciated.  Ratchet barely _knew_ this mech, for booting up cold!  They lived on different planets, literally! He thought about complimenting the other medic's work, then immediately rejected it.  He had a vague feeling that Knock Out would find that . . . condescending.

"I was at the hot spot this morning," Ratchet said at last, not knowing if it was the right thing to say. 

"Oh?"  The resentment was still there, but mingled with concern.

"Just checking it.  I brought you the latest read-out.  For your records."  Thank the stars he'd happened to have them along.  Ratchet plugged a datastick into his own datapad and downloaded most of his findings. The minute he held it out, Knock Out snatched the 'stick out of his grasp with impatience, eagerness, but without the least sign of gratitude.  

"Good manners cost nothing," Ratched muttered, watching the other medic pull up the information on his datapad.  Knock Out ignored him, but his expression did relax.   His pale, enamel face looked like it belonged to a living bot now instead of a particularly sullen statue.

"Ahhh . . . Hmm, still seeing slow growth rates from that A-09, but we'll see . . . A-20 is absorbing iron at a better rate now, good, I was getting worried . . ."  His finger dragged up and down the screen as he scrolled through the information, optics flitting back and forth.  After a few minutes of intense scrutiny, he glanced up at Ratchet, two red eyes peeking over the edge of the datapad.  "There's no information on the three separated protoforms?"

"I spotted two of them in the distance.  I believe the codes you assigned to them were A-023 and A-05.  Obviously I couldn't get close enough to run scans, but they looked fine."

"They were together?"

"Yes, and deeply absorbed in examining—well, a rock.  You know how young protoforms are."

"Good.  Well on their way to forming a cohort, then."  Knock Out actually smiled.  "What about the third one, was it around?"

"The third protoform?" Ratchet repeated, playing for time.

"Right, A-13.  Between you and me, I'm enormously interested to see what kind of alt mode it develops.  I'm _thinking_ something with wings, but . . ."

"Knock Out, about that one . . ." Ratchet rotated the energon cube in his grip, watched the liquid ripple.  He lifted his optics to meet the red mech's, because he deserved that much.  "This morning I saw something lying in a heap at the base of a hill and when I went over to investigate . . . Well."

"I see," Knock Out said after a moment, his face a perfect blank. 

"It wasn't anything to do with vehicles, or alt modes, or . . . lack of care.  We always lose some."

"I know."  Knock Out turned away to file the datapad away.

"There was nothing you could have done to—"

"I _know."_   The red mech's eyes flashed over his shoulder for a moment before he turned back to his task.  "Did you retrieve the body?"

"Retrieve the body?" Ratchet repeated, thrown as much by the suddenly detached and clinical tone as by the words.

"For dissection."

Ratchet repressed his urge to recoil.  The protoform was dead and being dissected would not make it any less so.  "No, I didn't bring it back," he said.  He watched Knock Out, the back of his helm as he leaned over to search for something else at his desk.  "Would you like me to?"

"No," Knock Out said after a pause.  "No, that won't be necessary at this time."

"All right."  Ratchet took a sip of energon.  Yes, that was definitely taenite.  "Well, I'd better be going."

"Of course.  You have your _duties."_

Ratchet allowed him the barb. "I'll keep you informed."

A low murmur.  It _might_ have been 'thank you.'  Of course, it could just as easily have been 'frag off', or anything else with two syllables.  Ratchet chose to believe it was the first option.

"I'm sorry," he said again.  Knock Out, still facing away, pretended not to hear.  Ratchet made a frustrated sound in his vocalizer.  "If you feel so deeply, and don't you _dare_ say that you don't, then how could you threaten to let the entire cohort expire rather than cooperating with Bryce?  Was it a bluff?  An idle threat?"

"Of course not."  Knock Out sounded tired.  "But it's clearly not something you can understand, so just go away."

"Maybe I'd understand if you explained it," Ratchet said.  But the other medic remained silent.  With a sigh that rattled his armor, Ratchet stood and walked to the door. 

"O.S.O.S.," Knock Out said suddenly.  "You weren't wrong to call it unethical, doctor.  And we did it to our own, to those we have the greatest reason, the greatest instincts, to protect."

Ratchet turned around and found ex-Decepticon watching him, smiling bitterly. 

"Can you imagine what we might have done, lacking even that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the fun things about writing Knock Out is how fundamentally _unfair_ he is. Oh, you're replacing him, Ratchet? Yeah, sorry, you aren't going to get the "it's okay, I understand" speech. HE HATES YOU NOW. But maybe he won't by this time tomorrow.


	16. Chapter 16

Ratchet trundled across the base to inform Prime and Magnus that Knock Out was no longer "suspiciously upbeat." As it turned out, Bumblebee was already with them, telling them the same thing. Ratchet slipped into the room and listened to the scout's impassioned lobbying on the shiny red medic's behalf.

 _He makes him sound like a little lost electro-lamb more than an ex-Decepticon,_ Ratchet thought. The gist of Bumblebee's argument was that Raf was _too_ old enough to visit a derelict enemy warship (tuh! nonsense!), and anyway it had been his idea not Knock Out's, and _anyway_ Knock Out was very upset now that his plan had fallen through, and—

"His plan. What _is_ his plan?" Ultra Magnus said immediately.

"He wouldn't tell me," Bumblebee admitted, chewing his lip. "He said it was a moot point since we couldn't get the _Nemesis'_ computer running. All I know is it had something to do with a file called KOB. I kept asking about it, but all he'd say was 'now I wish I'd tended to it myself instead of dumping it in Soundwave's lap.'"

"And as Soundwave is still in the Shadowzone, we're hardly able to ask him," Ratchet said drily.

"We still have two days," Ultra Magnus said. "I will speak to Knock Out again on this matter and see if he will divulge any further information."

Yeah, Ratchet wished him joy of _that._ He might be an old bot, but he wasn't blind. If Knock Out wouldn't tell Bumblebee, he wouldn't tell anyone. "I suppose I can retrieve some of my equipment from Earth in the meantime."

"Is our medical bay here not sufficient?" Optimus asked.

"I feel bringing my own equipment will offer less cause for . . . friction in the future." Friction from a certain ruby red medic.

Besides, he thought later, searching through the Earth base for his favorite wrench, he _liked_ his own tools. Not always the latest models perhaps, but they were sturdy and reliable. Many was the time he'd assisted a younger medic whose fancy-schmancy electro-doohickey had run out of juice halfway through a mission.

"Ah, Ratchet, I thought I might find you here." Today the general was in civilian gear, a tan sweater and pants camouflaged in similar tans, yellows, and browns. A golden retriever danced around him, half jumping on her master. "Just came to check how things are going before I headed off."

"Hello, General Bryce." Ratchet spark leapt. Going off. Leaving? Maybe they could get Fowler as a replacement after all. "And where are you going? Will you be gone long?"

"Just heading out for some duck hunting. I'll be back this evening. You've got my number, don't hesitate to call me if anything comes up or if the schedule is . . . accelerated." 

The hope that had briefly flared in Ratchet's spark died down again. "There are ducks in Nevada?"

"Oh sure. Head west on I-50 and eventually you'll find ponds with mallards and pintails . . . You're still gathering the essentials, I take it?" He pushed the dog off again. She raced over to Ratchet, sniffed his leg thoroughly, and raced back to Bryce, tongue dangling.

"Something like that. What about you, General? All packed?"

"Naturally! It's not every day I get to visit another planet, after all." He chuckled as though he'd just said something extremely witty.

"Well, very shortly you'll have your first opportunity." Ratchet told himself that he was just being paranoid, and unlike Knock Out he didn't have an unfortunate history with M.E.C.H. as an excuse. Just because Bryce never bothered to speak to Ratchet unless he wanted something didn't make him a villain. Surely the dog wouldn't be slobbering all over the man if he was that bad. "We're sorry for the delays, but you know how it is."

"Oh, sure, I know how it is. It's that other medic holding things up, right?"

"Knock Out."

"Yeah, that one. The ex-'Con. You know, we have a saying in this country . . . Once a con, always a con. Hope he's not going to be glowering in the background the whole time I'm there. Doesn't exactly promote a friendly atmosphere." He laughed again, but there was a slight hardness to it this time.

"He'll be out of your way. You won't even see him."

"You locked him away somewhere, huh?" Ratchet winced, but the General was looking down at the dog and maybe he didn't notice. "What's it like working with that guy?"

"Sometimes aggravating, but always interesting."

"Seems like the type of . . . person . . . who's a loose cannon. You get some like that in any unit. Just don't fit in."

"On the contrary, he gets along very well with most of the crew," Ratchet said stiffly. "He's very personable."

"Didn't seem that way to me."

"Well. We all have our off days, don't we?"

Bryce didn't answer immediately, instead taking a tennis ball out of his pocket. The golden retriever went into paroxysms of ecstasy, her feathery tail swinging in 180 degree arcs as she jumped in place in front of the man.

"You want it? You want it, Lacey? Go get it!" He threw the ball and the dog bounded after it. "Great hunting lines behind that dog. Got her when I was still in Minnesota. You ever been to Minnesota?"

"I don't believe so."

"Land of ten thousand lakes. Lots of forests. Wildlife. Ducks." The dog returned with the tennis ball and he threw it again. "This guy I knew, Sam Hennepin, he lived right on the edge of Blackduck State Forest. Found a wolf pup one day. You know what a wolf is, right?"

"Yes," Ratchet said, trying not to take offense at his slightly condescending tone. "I'm familiar with common Earth creatures."

"They're not _that_ common," he chuckled. "Anyway, the mother had been hit by a car, so he took the cub home. Illegal as hell, but who was going to know, right? He told the police it was a husky pup, and in a town that small people look the other way. Real cute little critter too, a little ball of fuzz, toppling over its own big feet. Smart, too, and curious." He tossed the ball up and down in his hand; the retriever's eyes followed it as she licked her lips anxiously. "Sure made me appreciate having a dog."

" . . . how do you mean?"

"Well, turns out . . . being smart meant it learned how to open the fridge, flush the toilet—all kinds of crazy things. Caused a big plumbing bill when it tried to flush one of its doggy toys. Being curious meant it dug through the sofa to see why it was squeaking. Sam and his wife had a waterbed—that didn't last long. And if it wanted to get out of the yard—it got out! Beautiful animal, but, boy, what a lot of trouble!" He laughed. 

"It was tame, see, but not _domesticated._ It had all the wrong instincts." Bryce paused. "So the final straw was when they were having a barbeque. Fang (that was the wolf) barreled into the grill, knocked it over, and started going to town on the burgers in the dirt. Very Fang thing to do, everyone just kind of laughed it off. And then Sam reached down to pull the barbeque upright and Fang just looked up with those yellow eyes and _snarled._ Teeth bared, hackles up, and that stare . . . _that stare._ I swear the only reason he didn't tear into Sam was 'cause he had the sense to back off, slowly. Turns out it wasn't the first time Fang had done something like that. Over food, over toys, over something he'd ripped apart that he just wanted to guard."

Bryce threw the ball. The soft pink inside the retriever's ears were revealed as she ran after it.

"In the end they built a dog run in the backyard and kept him in it twenty-four seven. Covered on the top so he couldn't get out. Ahhh, I used to feel sorry for that wolf, running back and forth on the concrete. A bullet would have been kinder." He put the tennis ball in his pocket and turned to leave, the dog prancing beside him. "Say hi to your Decepticon for me."

Ratchet's spark pulsed with anger and worry as he watched him go. Apparently they had a new reason to keep Knock Out separated from General Bryce.


	17. Chapter 17

"Dude!  I can't _believe_ you snuck onto the 'Con warship without us!  No fair!"  Miko punched Raf on the shoulder, but not too hard.  "Tell us everything!  Did you take pictures?"

"It was too dark; we couldn't get the lights working so we had to do everything by flashlight and headlights," Raf said.  "It was really cool, though!  'Con computer language is way different from the Autobot coding Ratchet's teaching me."

"Leave it to you to get more excited about computer languages than the ship, Raf," Jack laughed.  "I'm surprised you're still here on Cybertron, though.  I mean, you didn't get sent home?"

"Your mom fixed everything.  She's a pretty cool lady.  She called up my mom and said we were going on a field trip."

"Ha!  Nice!" Miko said, crossing her arms and smirking.  "Seriously, though, tell us more about the ship.  Did you see any bodies?  Did you see any _torture chambers?"_

"Uh, no.  We were on the bridge, most of the time.  And in the med bay and Knock Out's old room for a little bit, for his waxes and stuff." 

He didn't mention that they _had_ seen bodies in one of the rooms connected to the medical bay, Vehicon bodies piled up neatly against the far wall, like firewood.  He didn't mention Bumblebee saying in an only slightly high-pitched voice, "Oh yeah, Knock Out told me the 'Cons were big on recycling", or the way all of them pretended not to notice the place where the stacked corpses hid something much larger, boxier, and bulkier than a Vehicon.

"What was Knock Out's room like?" Jack asked.

"Bigger than the one he has here.  Kind of boring, though.  Like, the walls were all grey.  There wasn't really anything left in it except the car polish and stuff."

"Well, duh, you take all the stuff you like when you move," Miko said.  "But grey?  Naaah, that doesn't sound like Knock Out."

"Maybe Megatron was a control freak," Jack said.  "Grey walls or else.  His way or the highway."

"Sounds like him, the big jerk . . . Raf, you still with us?" She waved a hand in front of his eyes.  "You're looking all spaced out."

"Huh?  Oh . . . sorry, Miko.  I just . . ."  He sighed as he took his glasses off and polished them on his shirt.  "I just feel bad.  I guess I got Knock Out in a lot of trouble."

Miko and Jack glanced at each other.  All the Autobots kept muttering to each other about Knock Out, but none of them had the courtesy to fill their human partners in on the gossip.

"Ultra Magnus did pretty much drag him out of the room when he said he knew where you were," Jack said.

"And then they shut him up in his room and wouldn't even let us _visit,"_ Miko frowned.  "You know what it is?  It's a conspiracy against us."

"Against _us?"_ Raf's eyes grew round.

"Yeah!  It's just like in those kids books . . . where kids have all these awesome, dangerous adventures but then at the end something happens and, poof!, they magically forget all about it and go back to their normal, boring lives like none of it ever happened.  Well, _I'm_ not going back to normal!"

"Miko, I don't think you've ever gotten anywhere _near_ normal."

"You're missing my point, Jack.  The point is the same bots who trusted us to save the planet don't even trust us to walk around a broken ship now.  They want to force us to do _homework_ and play _soccer,_ and they made Knock Out the fall guy!"

"Well, it was a _Decepticon_ ship," Jack said in a reasonable tone.  "And Knock Out's probably just grounded for a few days."

"Actually . . ." Raf rubbed his arm.  "Actually, Bee told me he kinda . . . lost his job."

"He _what?"_   Miko looked dumbfounded.  "So . . . so he's not Doc Knock anymore?"

"Are you sure, Raf?  I mean, they've got to have a medic, right?"

"That's why Ratchet's on Cybertron right now.  And, yeah, that's what Bee told me this morning.  That he'd been, uh, demoted."

"That sucks!" Miko's expression of righteous indignation slowly changed to one of determination.  "And we're going to do something about it."

* * *

Strangely, Miko's plan to "do something about it" was to steal energon goodies from Ultra Magnus' latest baking endeavors.  As she explained it, this would achieve two goals:  cheering up Knock Out and "getting back at" Ultra Magnus.  She had waved away the fact that Bumblebee had told Raf to leave Knock Out alone for a while, that he wouldn't want visitors.  "He meant _other_ visitors," Miko said, confident. "Not _us."_

"Miko," Jack puffed as he staggered along with a treat in his arms, "are you sure Knock Out is even going to _want_ these?"  His arms were aching from transporting the surprisingly large and heavy confection, which had a jelled appearance and glowed a faint blue inside its frilled wrapper.  "I mean, they're gathering dust as we go along."

"Like a giant robot . . . cares . . . about dust," Miko panted.  She and Raf were heaving another energon goodie along.  "Anyway, Bulkhead said . . . he loved the one . . . I got him . . . before!  Whew!"  Having finally reached Knock Out's door, she braced her hands against her knees, wiping the sweat from her forehead.

"I think I'm gonna just sit down and die now," Raf announced, slumping against the wall.  For a few minutes the three of them concentrated on catching their breath.

"Okay . . . ring the bell," Miko said.

"Right."  Jack looked up at a doorbell that was a little over waist height . . . for a giant robot. "How?"

"Uh oh," Raf said.

"Oh, no way." Miko made an utterly futile attempt to climb up the smooth wall to reach the distant button.  "Seriously?"

"Seriously."  Jack sat down again.  "But maybe it's for the best, I mean—"  He cut off when Raf put a hand on his arm, raising his finger to his lips.

They all stared as the door made grinding sounds before starting to open, very slowly.  They could hear someone talking inside, but it wasn't Knock Out.

"Come on, this is our chance!" Miko hissed, springing to her feet and grabbing the wrapper of the nearest energon goodie.

"Miko, wait, that's Ultra Magnus!"  Jack really didn't want the very serious Second-in-Command to catch them stealing his baked goods.

"But he's sure to see us out here in the hall," Raf said over his shoulder as he helped Miko. 

Well, Jack had to admit that they had a point. The three of them snuck through the door and crept off to the side, hiding behind a glass sculpture in the corner.  Jack had never been in Knock Out's quarters before and the glossy white walls almost stunned him with their brightness.  He set down the energon goodie in his arms, shielding his eyes and squinting towards Ultra Magnus.

Fortunately the big Autobot hadn't noticed them at all;  in fact, he was facing away from them, still talking to Knock Out as he waited for the door to finish opening.

"—to tell me what the file is about," he was saying.  He paused for a response, but none came.

"What's going on?" Miko whispered, stretching her neck.  The huge table obscured their view of Knock Out, although they could see his legs well enough.  As for Ultra Magnus, he towered in a foreshortened view that made Jack a little dizzy.

Knock Out's lack of response seemed to frustrate Ultra Magnus.  "It's your duty to share any information that might be pertinent to the safety of or advantageous for Team Prime."

No reply from the red mech.  Just a quiet, metallic sound, repeated at irregular intervals.  _Ting . . . ting . . . ting . . ._

The door was now open far enough for Magnus to exit.  He shook his head and left, the door grinding closed behind him.

The children looked at each other.

"So . . what now?" Raf asked in a quiet voice.

"Now we go over there and cheer him up.  'Cause obviously he needs it after a visit from Big Blue," Miko whispered.

"Why are we whispering?" Jack asked in a similar undertone.

"I think it's 'cause we shouldn't be here," Raf said sadly.

"Of course we should be here," Miko hissed.  She grabbed the frilled wrapper of one of the treats and started heaving it across the floor.

Jack made no move to help her as he slowly followed, Raf shuffling after him.  Knock Out was leaning hunched over the tabletop. The the children couldn't see his face or his arms, couldn't tell what was making that little sound.  _Ting . . . ting . . ._    

 _Raf is right,_ Jack thought. _We shouldn't be here._   He felt the same way he had in second grade when Billy Trenton dared him to throw a rock at the school window—like he was fighting through an invisible wall of jelly with every move.  His muscles strained against the taboos that told him to stop, turn back. This was a sanctuary and, no matter how good their intentions, they were invading it.

Maybe Miko felt it too, because she hesitated as she reached the edge of the table.  Raf and Jack caught up with her and they all stared up at the edge of the metal plateau above them.

Raf tugged her arm and started whispering something about going back, and of course that did it;  her mouth set in a thin line and she cupped her hands around her mouth.

"H-hey!  Hey, Doc Knock!"

The metallic sound, whatever it was, ceased. 

Accompanied by a soft scraping, Knock Out peered down at them over the edge of the table.  His head rested in the crook of his arm, most of his face hidden.  A pair of round red eyes glinted above them. 

Black eyebrows pushed the black and red eyes down to narrow slits.  Then the red irises shifted away, disinterested, and with another scraping sound Knock Out's face disappeared from view, like a sun sinking below a metal horizon.

Of course this wasn't enough to make Miko give up.

"Hey, Knock Out!"  She moved closer to his leg, the only accessible part of him.  "We brought you some energon goodies.  Straight from Ultra Magnus' stash!  Is he ever gonna be ticked off!"

Knock Out didn't move.

"Serves him right, huh?" Miko said after a pause.  "He needs to loosen up and go with the flow.  I mean, so Raf was out of the base.  It's no big deal!" 

"Hey, Knock Out?" Surprisingly Raf was speaking up.  "Um, I just wanted to say I'm really sorry about getting you in trouble . . . I should have asked someone first.  So, sorry."  He shuffled his feet.

Silence.

"Hellooo, anyone home?" Miko rapped her knuckles on the former Decepticon's shiny red leg plating.  And then, to Jack's horror, Miko caught hold of the metal bars criss-crossing over the robot's tires and began to scale his leg.

"Don't worry, Doc Knock, I never let an arch-enemy down.  I've got a grrreat list of pranks for getting back at Magnus!  Trust me, he won't know what hit—"

Knock Out lifted his heel and brought it down with a thud.  Miko flailed as she was dislodged, falling backwards.

"Miko!" Jack ran forward to help her as she landed with a thump.

"Owww," she grumbled, rubbing her tailbone.  "What was THAT?" She slammed her fist into the side of Knock Out's leg and winced again as she connected with the metal.  "OW!"

"Um, okay.  Okay.  I think we should go."

"But—"

"No.  Seriously.  We're leaving." Jack turned towards Knock Out.  Knock Out's leg, anyway.  "Sorry about coming in here and . . . everything.  We'll just be leaving now and . . . and enjoy the energon treats."

 _Ting . . ._ That mysterious little sound.  _Ting . . ._

Jack ignored it as he looked around for the means to open the door.  There.  Way up high, of course.  But if he climbed up the bookcase . . .

"Miko, Raf, you two stay here," he whispered.  He ran over and began to pull himself up.  The edges of the metal shelves dug into his fingers and he kept thinking about the empty space at his back and how the fall would probably kill him, but he kept going until he reached the top.

"Whew . . ." He paused to catch his breath, looked up at the button that opened the door . . . and realized it was still out of his reach.  His heart sank.  He turned and spared a cautious glance for Knock Out.

The medic was slumped over the table, one arm drawn in front of his face.  His eyes, peeking over the edge of his door, were focused on a single bolt on the table.  One claw rested on the edge of it, outlining its form before pressing down. _Ting,_ the bolt flipped and spun.  Knock Out watched it until it had settled, then pulled it close, rolling it between his fingers before flipping it with a clawtip again.  _Ting . . ._

 "Um, hey."

_Ting . . . . Ting . . ._

"I don't mean to bother you, but I kinda need you to open the door?"

The finger teetered the bolt back and forth on its edge as the red eyes rose to look at him.  The light flashed on his gloss as he wordlessly stood and walked over.  Although Knock Out's porcelain-white face looked just the same as ever—Cybertronians _couldn't_ get bags under their eyes, Jack supposed—it had a sort of blankness that made him seem tired.

He pressed the button, then set his hand, palm up, next to Jack.  The dark haired teen hesitated only a second before crawling into his hand.  Better this than climbing all the way down.

"Thanks, Knock Out," he said as he peered over the edge of the smooth metal fingers, watching the ground get closer.

There was a pause and suddenly Jack was being lifted rather than lowered.  Two red and black eyes pinned him in an intense stare.

"Say it again."

"W-what?"

"Say my name again."

"Okay.  Sure.  Knock Out."  And when the robot just kept looking at him:  "Knock Out?"

The shiny red medic began to laugh, deep laughter, rich laughter, shoulders shaking, and only the fact that he drew Jack to his chest, cupped in both hands, prevented the teen from falling.   When Knock Out lifted him away again, the laughter had died and he was staring at Jack like he had found his last hope. 

"I _knew_ I'd seen you before."


	18. Chapter 18

Even Bumblebee and Arcee, who spent the majority of their time away from the base on scouting missions, were well accustomed to the dreaded Weekly Meeting.  They were, of course, Ultra Magnus' idea and somehow he managed to make them last two hours whether there was anything to discuss or not.  This week Wheeljack sauntered in late and Bumblebee was slumped in his chair with his arms crossed defiantly, but all the Autobots were there.  All except Knock Out.  And he would have been the first to point out that he was an "Autoboticon" anyway.

"Thank you, my friends, for your attendance," Optimus began like he always did.  Ratchet was sitting on one side of him, looking more tense and angry than usual, and Ultra Magnus sat on the other, looking like, well, himself.  "Ultra Magnus, if you would go over the minutes of the last meeting?" 

Ultra Magnus did.  At great length.  Bumblebee's optics dimmed as he fell into a waking doze.  If only he hadn't taken Raf to the _Nemesis_!  The _Nemesis_ , with its quiet, cavernous hallways that all looked the same . . . But it hadn't been dangerous.  It was empty.  Sad, somehow.  After the meeting he would find Raf and together they would talk to Optimus and Ultra Magnus again.  Get Knock Out off the hook.  It wasn't fair, that Bee only got a lecture while Knock Out got shut in his room just because he was a Decepticon.  Had been.  _Had been_ a Decepticon.

After an eternity, the minutes were over.  Optimus cleared his throat.  "I'm sure you have all sensed something amiss these past few days . . ."

He explained about the protoforms' need for vehicles and the new stipulations from Unit E requiring an on-site visit.  He tactfully avoided the topic of Knock Out's reprimand, making it sound like the shiny red medic had willingly stepped aside and handed the care of the hot spot to Ratchet.

 _Right, because Knock Out would willingly give up anything he was interested in,_ Bumblebee thought.  No one else looked convinced either.  They had seen enough to piece things together.

"And so I would ask all of you to cooperate fully with General Bryce while he is here," Optimus finished.

"And should Knock Out concoct some sort of _scheme_ involving the general, the hot spot, or anything else _,_ do not go along with it."  Ultra Magnus' glare rounded the table, lingering on Smokescreen and Bumblebee.  "If he steps foot out of his quarters, it is to be reported to Optimus or myself _immediately."_

This little speech left Optimus wincing slightly.  So much for tact.  It was all protocol and regulations with Ultra Magnus.

"Er-HRM."  Ratchet cleared his throat noisily.  "About Bryce."  He was silent for a moment or two before dropping the bombshell.  "I am beginning to have second thoughts."

Neither Optimus or Ultra Magnus let their jaw drop, but there was a kind of frank astonishment in the stare they gave the orange and white medic.

"We have been pursuing this course on the understanding that it was necessary for the protoforms," Ultra Magnus said, confused and annoyed at being confused.  "Please explain this sudden reversal, doctor."

"When I was retrieving my tools earlier today, I had a conversation with Bryce that makes me uncomfortable with the thought of him in our base."  Ratchet let out a ventilation with a huff.  "Essentially, he suggested in so many words that we terminate Knock Out."

Arcee raised an eyebrow.  "Fire our medic? Permanently?"

"No."  Ratchet's mouth pressed into a grim line.  "The other kind of termination."

After a moment of stunned silence, protests broke out on all sides.

"You can't mean," Bumblebee choked out, his spark contracting in fear and flaring in anger by turns.  "You can't mean . . ." He turned towards the Autobot leader.  "Optimus, we can't—"

"Of course not, Bumblebee.  Please, all of you.  Of course we would never let any harm come to Knock Out.  He is one of us.  But Ratchet, are you sure that's what the general said?"

 _"Quite_ sure.  Oh, he gussied it up with nonsense about Earth creatures and if you ask him, he'll deny it.  But that was definitely his meaning.  'A bullet would be kinder.' Those were his exact words."

"Well, in that case . . . in that case I think we should _ban_ him," Smokescreen said, crossing his arms.  "Like, didn't we just fight a whole war to get rid of the guy who wanted to scrap us?"

"Yeah, what a _jerk."_   Bulkhead looked disgusted. He gritted his jaw from side to side.  "I'm with Smokey.  Who needs that guy?"

 _"We_ need that guy," Arcee said.  "Or don't we?"

"My impression, doctor, was that without the General . . ."  Ultra Magnus let the sentence hang.

"Without the General, things would be more difficult.  Not impossible.  There's always a lot of protoform mortality, no matter what."  Ratchet heard a faint noise of protest from Smokescreen and ignored it.  "And _we_ all have vehicular modes.  If we set up shifts around the hot spot—"

"Hey, that's what Knock Out said!" Smokescreen broke in.

"Hate to rain on the parade," Wheeljack said.  "But those protoforms ain't gonna separate all at once and they ain't gonna start lookin' for alt modes all at once.  Could take years.  Are we just s'pposed to stop doing everything else for all that time?"

"But we could at least save _some,"_ Ratchet said.  "Or we can attempt to find some other source of vehicles . . ."  He glanced at Ultra Magnus, but the blue and white bot shook his head.

"Knock Out would not give up any more details."

"Details?" Bulkhead scratched his head.  "On what?"

"Red had some kinda plan, but he wanted it to be a surprise," Wheeljack told his fellow Wrecker.  "You know how he is."

"But . . . but . . ."  Bumblebee leaped out of his seat in excitement, slamming both hands down on the table harder than he intended.  "But don't you see?  He'll tell us about it _now._  Once we tell him that Bryce isn't coming, we can go back to the _Nemesis_ , fix the computer system—even if it takes weeks or months that's still better than nothing—and get that file and do . . . whatever it is we need to do with it!"

"That is our best option," Ratchet agreed after a moment, _"provided_ that Knock Out's plan is actually feasible.  We have no idea what it actually consists of."

"Well, let's go find out."  Arcee pushed her chair back.

"Arcee!  This meeting is not adjourned yet!  We still have a significant amount of time left and many subjects on the agenda—"

Smokescreen let himself fall forward, his helm hitting the table with an audible thud.

Optimus cleared his throat.  "Ultra Magnus, perhaps we could at least get Knock Out in here . . . given that we need his input."

The Second-in-Command gave a long, drawn out vent.  "Very well," he said reluctantly.  He paused a moment, then looked annoyed.  "He is not responding to my texts.  Smokescreen, go fetch him.  Do _not_ take no for an answer."

"Yessir!" Smokescreen was out the door almost before he'd finished speaking.  Whether this was out of his eagerness to get Knock Out or his eagerness to get out of the meeting was unknown.

The meeting limped along with half-hearted discussion of whether the building across the street from headquarters was stable enough to remain standing or if it would have to be demolished.  After what seemed like an eternity, Smokescreen returned.

Alone.

"Well," Ultra Magnus said, tapping his fingers on the table.  "Where's Knock Out?"

"Um, don't get mad, but . . . he's not there."

"Not _there?_   Not in his quarters?"

"Yes. I mean, no.  Not in his quarters.  All I found was this, on the floor."  He dropped something small and blue on the table.  A tiny plush toy.

"I've seen that somewhere before," Arcee said.  "Isn't that—"

"Miko's!  It's Miko's, from her belt!  Ah scrap, I should've known she'd go in there."  Bulkhead covered his face.  "'Cause I told her not to.  Just _great._ Now _they're_ probably on the _Nemesis._ "

"Bulkhead, there is no way Knock Out would do that after what he just went through," Bumblebee said, crossing his arms.  "They probably just . . . went for a walk."  Everyone stared at him and he sunk lower in his seat.  "Well, anyway, there's no reason he'd take her to the _Nemesis_.  He needs the computer fixed.  It's not like she's Raf."

"Um, about that."  Smokescreen rubbed his arm.  "I thought the other kids might know where they'd gone, but . . . I can't find them either.  Nurse Darby is checking the rest of the base right now, but, uh, I found this right by the ground bridge."  Smokescreen carefully slid something else off his palm, something small and silver.

Jack's phone.

"Oh Primus . . ." Bulkhead toppled his chair as he lumbered for the door.

"I am going to fragging kill him."  Arcee transformed and raced out of the room.

 _He would never hurt Raf,_ Bumblebee reminded himself as he ran after them, feeling numb.  _He would never hurt Raf, because he knows I care for him._

It seemed, suddenly, like a flimsy piece of protection.

Arcee searched through the base, but the others gathered around the controls for the ground bridge.

"I just don't get how he could DO this," Bulkhead kept saying angrily.  "After literally just getting told not to do this!  Miko had _better_ be all right, or else—"  He pounded his fist into his palm.

"Of course she's all right," Bumblebee snapped.  "This . . . this was probably her idea to begin with.  She probably convinced him to go gallivanting off—"

"'Scuse me?  Are you saying it's _Miko's_ fault that Knock Out dragged her off to Pit knows where?"

"Bumblebee, Bulkhead, calm down.  What matters now is finding Knock Out and the children, whether they are together or separate," Optimus said.

Arcee sped back in, carrying June Darby.   "They're not in the base."

"Knock Out still isn't responding to any of my comms, auditory or text," Ultra Magnus reported.  "Nothing but static on the auditory;  he's out of range."

"If that . . . that big red _fop_ of a robot has taken Jack to that ship—"  June Darby was shaking with anger as she got off the motorcycle.

"He didn't.  They ain't on the _Nemesis."_   Wheeljack tapped a finger against the screen meaningfully.  "This shows the last set of coordinates entered. No ground bridge has been activated since me 'n Bee 'n Raf came back."

"Ha!  _See?"_ Bumblebee drew himself up.  "They're probably just around here and Knock Out turned off his comm or something—"

"Hold on there, kid.  I said the ground bridge hadn't been activated.  But I didn't say nothin' about the _space_ bridge."  He looked towards the others with a wry smile.  "They're on Earth."


	19. Chapter 19

Whiskers was not entirely satisfied with her new house.  She had been living there two years now, but she was sixteen years old so she still considered it "new".  The new house was not a total washout—it was warmer at night, less drafty, and, most importantly, had mice.  Still . . . her tail flipped irritably when she thought about the comfortable familiarity of her old house.  But one night when scary lights had flashed through the air and the smell of smoke was everywhere and _things_ screeched across the sky, June had stuffed Whiskers into her carrier and run from the old house and they had never gone back. 

Whiskers did not like the Man either.  She didn't like how he came to dinner more and more.  She didn't like how June leaned against him when they watched a movie on the warm glowy-box.  She didn't like how he taught Jack tricks on his noisy two-wheel machine.  She didn't like how his suit sometimes smelled like danger and smoke, just like that night when she lost her old home. 

Most of all, she didn't like that he was someone other than June or Jack.   _They_ were her people;  they didn't need the Man.   They hadn't needed the last one, either, the one who got into shouting matches with June that lapsed into tense silences.  Good riddance, in Whiskers' opinion.

She had to admit that the new Man was at least better than the old one.  But that was not saying much.  She still hissed at him from underneath chairs and, on one memorable occasion, peed on his coat.

Unfortunately, June and Jack were both not-home.  Sadly, this meant that the Man came over to the house every day to put out new cat food and change the kitty litter.  Whiskers did not like this state of affairs.  She did not like it at all.

Currently Whiskers was sitting like a lump on Jack's bed—all four feet tucked neatly beneath her and her chin resting on her chest.  The sunlight streaming through the window gave her black fur blinding white highlights, although the greying around her muzzle would have been there in any light.  Yawning, Whiskers thought about how she would show her displeasure when June and Jack returned.  She would ignore them . . . yes . . . ignore them for a few days . . . that would show them . . .

Suddenly the room went dark and cold.  Whiskers opened her eyes, ready to glare at the cloud that had dared cover the sun.  But there was no cloud.  The sun had been replaced by a glowing red ring that gave no warmth at all.  Whiskers had a confused glimpse of something so massive and strange that she didn't have the thoughts for it.

Sunlight streamed past the huge, gleaming Thing as it moved back a little.

And then five sharp, metal claws burst through the wall, plaster and splintered wood flying.  By the time the fingers curled around the window, Whiskers was already halfway down the stairs.

* * *

An hour later, Agent Fowler parked his car in front of June Darby's house. 

"Well, time to face down the world's smallest panther again," he muttered as searched for the right key on his key ring.

He replenished the cat's dry food and changed the litterbox in the basement before taking a can of moist food out of the cupboard.  To his surprise, the sound of the can opener didn't bring Whiskers running like it usually did.  Strange.  She didn't like him, but she _loved_ moist food.

"Better check on her," he decided, feeling a stirring of unease.  All he needed was for the Darbys' cat to drop dead while they were on Cybertron.  And Whiskers _was_ pretty dang old.  "Whiskers?  Heeere kitty, kitty, kitty . . ."  He leaned down, hands on his knees as he looked under the kitchen table.  Nope.  He moved out to the hall.  "C'mon out, girl, got some cat food with . . ."  He checked the empty can, which was still in his hand.  "Chicken byproducts!  Mmm-MMM!"

He stopped, straightening.  A trail of dusty kitty footprints led down the stairs, through the hall, and under the living room couch.  He lifted the dust ruffle and was confronted with a pair of glaring green eyes and a previously black, now dusty grey, cat.

"What the heck did you get into, Whiskers?"  Shaking his head, Fowler backtracked, following the prints upstairs.  "Awfully drafty up here . . ."  He turned towards Jack's room and froze.  The window, along with a good portion of the wall, was gone.  A blanket of dust covered everything.  Slowly walking to the gap, Agent Fowler put a hand to the broken wall and stared out, trying to process it.

He stared down at the garden.  The window was down there, miraculously unbroken, leaning neatly against the side of the house.  And there was something else, too . . .

His phone rang; he answered it automatically.  "Fowler here."

"Agent Fowler, this is Ratchet.  Please alert Unit E to watch for Knock Out.  We have reason to believe that he's taken an unauthorized trip to Earth, with the children.  We need to find out where he is ASAP."

"I don't know where he is, but I have a pretty good idea where he's been."   He looked down at the garden again.  There couldn't be that many things that left footprints consisting of a triangle, a rectangle, and a tire tread.

* * *

Between the pictures Agent Fowler sent from his phone and the dust, it was easy to figure out what Knock Out had taken.  Agent Fowler scribbled down a list of the missing items on a paystub that had tumbled out of a drawer that was now resting upside down on the desk.  It had held paperwork for Jack's computer, motorcycle, and video game system, the check stubs from his burger job, . . . and cash.   Not much cash.  Twenty or thirty dollars.  But it was gone.

"So the cash, his laptop, and his wallet," June said, trying to keep her voice steady. 

"But why would Knock Out take any of those things?"  Bumblebee paced back and forth.  "It doesn't make _sense!"_

"Since when is Knock Out in the business of making sense?"  Arcee's voice had a tense edge to it.

"So are we going to comm him or what?" Bulkhead said, unusually twitchy.  "Or let me call Miko, at least."

"Hep-ep-ep!  Hold your hydraulics!" Ratchet said.  "We'll comm him as soon as we set the monitor to track his location.  Just in case he's not forthcoming."

"Of course he'll be forthcoming," Bumblebee muttered, kicking at the floor.

"Funny, you said 'we', but I seem t' be doing all the work," Wheeljack commented as he adjusted a dial and tapped in a line of code.

"Only because you say I'm in the way when I try to help," Ratchet snapped.

"Ratchet, Wheeljack, please . . . Agent Fowler, do you have anything else to report?" Optimus asked.

"I've been going around the neighborhood looking for eyewitnesses—or red Aston Martins—and I found one."

"An Aston Martin?"

"Sorry, no . . . an eyewitness.  Alice Maeng from two doors away.  She was in her backyard at the time of the incident.  Wanna hear her statement?"

"Most certainly.  Perhaps it will shed some light on this incident."

"Yeah, well . . . don't get your hopes up.  Here goes.  'I was playing jump rope and then Iron Man was there, and he punched through the wall with robot kung fu and he's really big and red and cool, like my bike.  I don't have to use training wheels anymore.  I'm a secret princess and if Iron Man gets caught by bad guys I'm going to rescue him and marry him.  It'll be cool.'"

"Well," Smokescreen said after a moment's silence.  "Good to know there's a secret princess in the neighborhood, I guess."

"This is no laughing matter, Smokescreen," Ultra Magnus growled.  "Not only is Knock Out demonstrating gross insubordination, but he has engaged in the destruction of private property!"

"And taken the kids.  You were going to say that next, right?"  June crossed her arms, glaring up at him.

"Yes.  Them as well.  But Cybertronian law is more clearly defined on—"

"Anyway," Smokescreen said hastily.  "I'm sure this is all just a giant misunderstanding.  Knock Out's a good guy underneath all that wax and polish."

"Well, that 'good guy' tore a hole in my house and took my son God-knows-where," June snapped.  "How do you know he's not . . . running back to Megatron or something?"

For a moment no one moved, like they were afraid breaking the tension would literally cause something to snap.

"Nurse Darby," Optimus Prime said, dropping slowly to one knee to face her.  "We will do everything in our power to find the children.  And there is no doubt Knock Out has shown extremely poor judgment.  But I truly do not believe he would do them any harm, nor join Megatron, even if he were still on this planet or still a threat.  Under the circumstances—"

"Under the circumstances you have a former Decepticon—whose past M.O. centered around taking hostages—kidnapping three minors."  The Autobots turned to find General Bryce walking in, still in his civilian clothes.  He stopped to smile up at Ratchet. 

"Hello, doctor.  I hear your wolf went rogue."  He leaned on his rifle.  "Good thing you know a hunter."

* * *

"Geez Jack, don't be such a stick in the mud." In the passenger seat, Miko leaned back with her arms behind her head and her boots crossed on the dashboard.  "It's not even your real house, it's like, a replacement."

"Uh, yeah it is my real house, because my other house got vaporized along with the rest of Jasper.  And I'm just saying . . . was it really necessary to tear a hole in my room?"  Despite being in the driver's seat, Jack crossed his arms.

"If you didn't want me to," Knock Out said, "then maybe you shouldn't have forgotten your house keys back on Cybertron."

"I _didn't_ forget them, you wouldn't let me go grab them because you said this was 'a time-sensitive mission'."

"And so it is.  Anyway, you can have the house repaired.  It's not like it will make a _difference."_


	20. Chapter 20

"General Bryce."  Ratchet looked unenthused.  "And what are you doing here, if I might ask?"

"I just came to offer a helping hand.  I received Agent Fowler's report and I can assure you that Unit E is fully prepared to help you with your little . . . situation."

"Generous," Wheeljack commented in a flat tone, without looking up.  He was still adapting the communications system; signals "bounced" differently on organic Earth compared to metallic Cybertron.  "Help how, exactly?"

"By dealing with the Decepticon, of course."

"Hey, he's not a Decepticon, okay?" Smokescreen's door-wings bristled.  "He's an . . . not a Decepticon," he finished lamely.

"Whatever you say.  The point is, we're happy to be able to offer assistance."

"Your offer is appreciated, but what exactly do you mean," Optimus said in a steady voice, "by 'dealing with' Knock Out?"

General Bryce didn't hesitate.  "Stopping him by any means necessary.  The United States doesn't want another terrorist robot on our hands."

"I suggest that you restrict yourself to an informational role, General, and allow us to retrieve Knock Out," Ultra Magnus said, eyeing the human.  "We know how to handle him . . . and what rights he is due as a Cybertronian."

"A Cybertronian on _my_ planet, in _my_ country, who has kidnapped three minors.  A Cybertronian who has violently broken into a private home.  A Cybertronian who changed sides once and could do it again.  I repeat—we intend to stop him through _whatever means are necessary."_

"General Bryce."  Optimus' expression was serious, almost solemn.  "Knock Out may have a checkered past, but he is part of our team.  Furthermore, he has never shown the least interest in returning to the Decepticons—none of whom remain on Earth.  I ask you not to prejudge him.  You have circumstantial evidence, not proof of wrongdoing. Do not forget that when M.E.C.H. built an automaton that resembled my form, I too was once presumed guilty of attacking humans.  Yet those assumptions were proven false."

"But Optimus."  Arcee frowned up at him.  "That was _you._   And this is . . . well, Knock Out."

"Oh, and what's _that_ supposed to mean?" the black and yellow scout snapped.

"You know exactly what it means, Bumblebee.  He's unpredictable and it's no secret that he doesn't like humans.  Don't pretend you aren't worried about Raf!"

"'Cee's got a point.  I don't think Knock would hurt the kids on purpose but, Bee, you've gotta admit . . . he's kinda careless.  He never remembers to look where he's walkin' when the kids are around."

 _"He's_ kind of careless?  I don't think it was Knock Out who nearly brought a building down on top of me that one time!"

"That's different and you know it!"

"Sure didn't seem any different to me as I watched twenty tons of siding and steel beams tumbling towards me."

"Can I say something?"

Everyone looked towards June, standing on the catwalk next to the couch where the children so often played video games or watched TV. 

Optimus nodded. "Of course, Nurse Darby."

She took a deep breath and began.

"Before the Decepticon-Autobot war ended, Bill—Agent Fowler—and I ran into Knock Out while we were retrieving a Predacon fossil.  He took hostage—put us in his trunk—but we fought our way out and hid a train yard."  She studied the metal grating under her feet while she collected her thoughts, then lifted her eyes to meet Optimus' blue optics.

"Knock Out probably seems small to you.  But when you're a human, and he's reaching for you—he's not.  He's enormous.  And frightening."  Her hands tightened on the railing of the catwalk.  "It's not that I don't trust your judgment, Optimus.  But we're talking about my _son._  If there's any chance that he's in danger—"  She stopped to take another gulp of air, her vision blurring slightly.

"Nurse Darby."  Optimus' voice was always so compassionate.  "I understand."  The leader of the Autobots looked down at General Bryce.  "You have my permission to restrain Knock Out if it is truly necessary.  However, physical force is _only_ to be used as a last resort, if the children's lives are in danger and there is no other option.  Above all, I expect you to try to defuse the situation through communication first, before resorting to violence."

"And on that note," Wheeljack said, straightening, "I finally got the comm codes sorted out.  Let's ring up Red and see what he says."

* * *

Knock Out was in a good mood.  His chassis gleamed in the sun, the road was warm under his tires, and a smooth river of highway spread in front of him as far as the optics could see.  Earth might have its faults, but currently Knock Out was quite prepared to forgive them.  Furthermore, the trees flanking the highway displayed the brilliant reds and golds of autumn—a pretty compliment to his own paintjob.

It almost made him not regret taking the three skinjobs with him.

"Um, Knock Out?" Raf said.  "Do you have a screwdriver?"

Knock Out popped his glove compartment open.  "Check in there."

Miko reached in.  "Wow, what's this stuff?"

"Holofoil bandages.  Put them back."  Pause.  "I said put them _back,_ not unroll them."

"Yeah, yeah."  Miko wadded them back into the glove compartment in a silvery tangle.  "What size screwdriver?"

"The smallest one you can find."  Raf was busy disassembling his cell phone in the back seat, picking out some of the small components and wiring and storing them in the convex top of the miniature energon cube taking up most of the room beside him.  "And I'm gonna need your cell phone soon, too."

"WHAT?"  Miko turned around in her seat, despite her seatbelt.  "No way are you dissecting mine!  Use Jack's!"

"I don't have mine, I must've dropped it."

Miko defiantly rolled down the window and began snapping pictures of the foliage.  "Well, I'm not giving up mine." 

"Yes, you are," Knock Out said.

"Nuh uh!"

"Yes."

"You're not the boss of me.  In fact, as my arch-nemesis it's my _duty_ to thwart you."

"Miko, just give Raf the dumb phone."

"Do you know what a pain it is enter everyone's contact info again, Jackrabbit?"

"Stop calling me that!"

"All of you shut up before I leave you on the side of the road!"

"Hmph."  Miko went back to taking pictures.

"Um, Knock Out," Raf said after a minute.  "Don't you think we should've told someone where we're going?"

"Oh, they'll comm me soon enough," Knock Out said breezily.  "I just wanted to get a little head start."

"Why?"

"Because I want things to actually get done for a change."

"Oh." Raf picked another component out of his phone.  "But you'll get in trouble again."

"Youngling, the amount of trouble I'm in, a little more isn't going to make a difference."  Knock Out changed lanes, passing an RV.  "Anyway, just like 'Cons, I suspect Autobots are willing to overlook some rule-bending if you get results."

"There's bending," Jack muttered, "and there's snapping in half."

"No one asked _you."_   Something flashed on his dashboard display.  "Now if you'll excuse me," he said, and the smirk was evident in his voice, "I believe I'm being hailed."

* * *

Ratchet left the monitor display centered on Jasper, but zoomed out far enough that the rest of Nevada and parts of the surrounding states were visible too.  Knock Out couldn't have gone any farther, given his top speed and the amount of time he'd been on Earth.  ("But he couldn't really have been going full throttle, he'd have been pulled over," Smokescreen observed.  "Cops in this state, it's like they have nothing better to do than to harass an innocent bot trying to have some fun.")

"Here goes . . ." Ratchet said.  The Autobots, Bryce, and June Darby all stared at the screen as Ratchet sent a communication ping to Knock Out.  A moment later his profile opened on the sidebar, a holographic picture of the red Cybertronian with an Autobot insignia beside his name.  But the map remained blank.

"Well, hello, hello," Knock Out's cheerful voice came over the line.  "So you finally noticed I was gone.  Faster than I expected, to be fair."

"Knock Out.  Are the children with you?" Optimus asked, his voice firm.

"Of course.  Say hi, fleshlings!"

June's heart beat faster as she heard garbled exclamations in the background.  It was impossible to decipher what the kids were saying, but they were definitely there.

"All three of them?" Arcee demanded.

"Yes, all three.  Is Bee there?"

"I'm here," Bumblebee said quickly.  "Knock Out, what are you _doing?"_

"Driving," he replied coyly.

"You need to turn around and come back, right now. You're in so much trouble."

"Oh right, _that's_ a reason to come back.  No thank you."

"Knock Out . . ."  Bumblebee turned to Optimus in despair.

"Knock Out.  Return the children to the base immediately."

"No." Knock Out's voice had a pleasant tone.  Pleasant and intractable.

"That was not a request."

"Oh, wasn't it?  Good to know."

"Knock Out," Ratchet said, "why are you scrambling your signal?  You're not on the map."

"I'm not doing anything.  Maybe your computer is rusted out, like a certain Autobot I know?"

"So where are you, Red?" Wheeljack asked.  "Better watch yourself, Miko's a Wrecker."

A static-y snort.  "Well, that explains a lot.  I'm in upstate New York." 

The Autobots stared at one another.

"New York?"  Smokescreen crowded up to the computer, shoving Ratchet aside.  "You can't be!  How'd you get there?  It's like, thousands of miles away."

"Smokescreen.  You're in Ratchet's little home away from planetary home, right?  Look a few meters to the right and tell me what you see.  Is there, perhaps, a large piece of equipment that might allow for rapid transit to a different part of the planet?"

"The ground bridge," Arcee said.  "He doubled back and took the ground bridge."

"Well, no wonder he's not showin' up in Nevada!  Here, Smokey, let me."  Bulkhead shoved into the already crowded group around the controls and tapped a button.  The map view immediately panned northeast, until it was centered over the East Coast of the United States.  A red Autobot insignia was overlaid on the state of  New York, although at this scale it was impossible to pinpoint Knock Out's exact location.

As they watched, the Autobot icon began to flicker rapidly.

"Bulkhead!" Ratchet pushed him aside and began typing in a frenzy.  "There was a _reason_ I set the map manually!"

"What are you bots _tzzzt-ttzzk-ck-ck_ —ere?  If you bridge over I'll fill you in, it's too— _eeeOOOooo_ —plicated to explain over the comm."

"Knock Out, your Decepticon anti-spyware is reacting to the Autobot tracking software.  I can't get a good fix on you and it's probably going to corrupt your frequency."  Ratchet gave Bulkhead a glare.  "Transmit your coordinates before you get cut off."

A moment of silence, then very clear but sounding more distant than usual: "Bulkhead, I am going to kill you."

"I didn't know!" the big green Wrecker protested, spreading his hands. "Can't we just check the ground bridge log to see where he landed?"

 _"No,_ Bulkhead, we cannot 'just check the log.' Before leaving for Cybertron, I set the bridging software to purge after each activation. A standard security measure when leaving the base unprotected, _remember?_ Knock Out—your coordinates."

"All r— _rrrzzz—_ transmitting now."

Ratchet frowned.  "The file corrupted.  Try again."  Pause.  "Nope, it still didn't work.  Read them off to me."

"Are you kidding?  It's twenty-fiv- _crrcrrcrr—_ umbers long!"

"Just tell us where you are," Arcee said with an impatient gesture. 

"I told you, New York."

"A _town,_ Knock Out."

"There aren't any.  No.  Listen.  I'll tell y— _ffzzBLAT_ —ow to find me.  Just look up—"  The line dissolved into static, only intermittent snips of phrases coming through.  "—ference at— _kkkkkkEEEE_ —Knock Out— _weeooweeooBLEEEE_ —Aston— _whrrr_ —ift."

 _"What?_   You're breaking up."  The purple Decepticon symbol now flickered along with the Autobot brand, sometimes one on top, sometimes the other.  The icon shifted randomly all over the map as Knock Out's automated protocols tried to escape "enemy" detection.

An exasperated sigh.  Knock Out apparently decided shouting would help.  "I SAID I'M A COUPLE HOURS FR—" The shrill interference shrieked again. "ASTON M— _tttz_ — _SWIFT!_   DID YOU GET THAT?"

Bumblebee stared blankly. "Swift?"

"Just like it sounds," Knock Out said at a normal volume, clear as a bell. 

And with that his frequency collapsed into hisses and spits of random static.  The Autobot symbol dissolved for good, leaving the Decepticon insignia hanging on the screen.  Then that too disappeared.

"Oh man," Bulkhead moaned, then brightened.  "Hey—try Miko's phone!"

"That's . . . actually a good idea." Ratchet dialed it.

"Hello, sports fans!  This is Miko Nakadai reporting from the Indy 500!"

"Miko!" June ran forward, accepting a lift up from Ratchet to the computer.  "Are you all right?  Raf and Jack, are they all right?"

"We're in the nefarious clutches of my arch-nemesis, but don't worry—I have the ultimate weapon.  Hwwwaack!"  It sounded suspiciously like Miko was going to hock a loogie.

A voice in the background:  "Miko, if that touches my upholstery, I swear to Primus I'm dumping you out on the highway.  And for the last time, feet _off_ my dash."

"Give me the phone—Mom, we're fine," came Jack's voice.  "We're going to—MIKO!"  More faintly:  "Give that back!"

"Shouldn't have dropped your own, Jack."

"Both of you fleshies, shut up and tell them where we are."

"Okay!  Listen up, we're . . . hey, where are we?"

Raf's voice:  "There's a sign coming up."

"Yes, please tell us what's on the sign," Optimus said.

"Hang on," Miko said.  "I'm gonna send you a picture of it, then you'll know right where we—whoops!"

There was a whoosh of air.  A noisy clatter.  The whine of engines speeding by.  And then a very definitive crunch.

"Wonderful."  Ratchet tried Raf's phone.  No response.  "Great."

"At least we know more than we did before," Arcee said.

"We do indeed," said General Bryce.  He punched in a number on his phone.  "McCarthy, the target is in upstate New York.  That's right, the Aston Martin.  Armed, dangerous, and in the possession of three minors.  You know the drill."

The Autobots collectively boggled at him as he hung up.

"General Bryce, did you not hear the children?" Optimus asked, eyebrows drawing down.  "They are fine."

"Really?  Because what I heard was a frightened girl who'd been kidnapped by her, ahem, arch-nemesis and was at risk of being dumped out of a speeding car onto the highway."

"No.  No, no, no, you've got it all wrong."  Bulkhead crouched down to address the human.  "The arch-enemies stuff, it's just this _thing_ they do, it doesn't mean anything.  Her sayin' that was actually good, 'cause she wouldn't be fooling around like that if she was in danger for real."

"And Miko doesn't do 'frightened,'" Wheeljack said.

"He wants us to meet up with him, you heard it yourself!" Bumblebee said.

"That might have been what he wanted . . . before his Decepticon programming took over."

"His Decepticon—!"  Ratchet pinched his nasal ridge.  "That only pertained to his _communications system._  Leftover security protocols added by higher-ups to discourage spying!  But _being_ a Decepticon—or an Autobot—is solely a matter of choice, not programming."

"I'm sorry, but I have to act in the best interest of the three American citizens who are in grave danger."

"Miko is from Japan," June Darby said, her arms crossed.

"Well.  Two citizens and one honored guest to this great nation, then.  If you'll excuse me, I have a rescue operation to oversee."  The General turned and walked away.

Ratchet ground his dental plates together with a thin screech.  "This is what Bryce wanted all along.  In grave danger—that's a load of scrap and he knows it."

Arcee frowned.  "Optimus, we've got to find Knock Out first."

"And so we shall," he answered.  He only hoped he was speaking the truth.


	21. Chapter 21

Agent Fowler was frowning before he even reached Autobot base. This was partly because of the briefing he'd just received. (All three kids, kidnapped by that shiny red sports car!) Partly it was because the way General Bryce had prefaced his call.

"We need you to get over to Autobot base and make sure they don't interfere."

 _Make sure they don't interfere?_ Fowler thought as he parked his car. The Autobots loved those kids; they'd do anything to protect them and bring them home safely. If they were "interfering", it was probably because they thought they had a better strategy for rescuing them. And since they'd been fighting 'Cons like Knock Out for millions of years, they were probably right. Fowler just hoped he could make the General see that . . .

"Alright, 'Bots," Fowler said as he strode in. "We all know the situation. You've got a 'Con gone crazy, but we're not gonna panic. We're gonna stop that walking scrapheap, no matter what it takes!"

He paused, suddenly aware that the Autobots were glaring at him. Even June had her arms crossed and a thundercloud of an expression on her face.

"Or," Agent Fowler said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck, "You could brief me on the situation."

* * *

Knock Out had made two major geographical mistakes within the span of a few hours. 

The first was to assume that that typing "New York" into Ratchet's ground bridge controls would open a bridge to New York _City._ Only after finding himself on a highway with nary a skyscraper in sight had he remembered that there was more to the state than Manhattan.

The second was to assume that "upstate New York" referred to all the parts of the state that weren't Long Island.

Knock Out was, in fact, in _western_ New York, heading towards Rochester.

Or at least he _had been_ heading that way. Currently he was pulled over on the side of the road to allow Miko to retrieve her cell phone off the highway Knock Out had a feeling that the Autobots would not have approved, and he himself felt uneasy about sending an organic onto a major roadway; with the number of cars whizzing by, it seemed far more dangerous than visiting the _Nemesis._ But they _needed_ that phone.

"Back!" Miko announced, opening the passenger side door and slamming it after she hopped in. Nothing about this process was pleasant for Knock Out, who gave a full framed shudder. He swore he could feel organic fingerprints on his chrome.

"Next time ASK before you grub all over my door handles," he snapped, "Did you get the phone?"

"Well, I've got good news and bad news. The good news is yes, I got it. The bad news is . . ." She held up a tangle of plastic casing, held together by a few strands of wire. "We aren't gonna be calling anyone on it. Here ya go, Raf, you get to dissect it after all." She tossed the remains into the back seat.

"Oh well, they can't say we didn't try," Knock Out said, pulling back onto Interstate 90. "What's that sign say? Read it, one of you."

Raf adjusted his glasses. "Um. Rochester, 22 miles. New York City, 355 miles."

"Geez. How long is that going to take?" Jack asked.

"Abooout five or six hours," Raf said.

Knock Out's engine lowered in a growl. "Well, isn't that just _grand."_

* * *

Bumblebee and Smokescreen were in favor of heading through the ground bridge immediately, but as Ratchet pointed out, they didn't know exactly where Knock Out was. "Upstate New York" was a big area.

"We should go over what he said first," the medic insisted, "and see if we can narrow down his location."

So Agent Fowler fished the check stub with the list of missing items on it out of his pocket and started a new list as Ratchet replayed the message.

It started out promising:

_I'm in upstate New York._  
_Bridge over and I'll fill you in._  
_Too complicated to explain over the comm._  
_I'll tell you how to find me._

But after the static storm had hit, there was just a word or a phrase here and there.

_Knock Out_  
_Aston Martin_  
_swift_  
_just like it sounds_

"We're wasting our time," Bumblebee whined, pacing.

"Calm down, Bee," Wheeljack said. "If Knock Out was talkin' about fast Aston Martins . . . then it's gotta be somethin' about racing."

Bulkhead nodded enthusiastically. "Hey, yeah! Like, maybe he figured he can win a bunch of money on the track and get vehicles that way!"

"Racing tracks in New York? Is that a . . . thing . . . there?" June said dubiously. 

"It could be an illegal race," Optimus Prime said. "We know he has engaged in those before."

"Maybe he meant he was going to get some Aston Martins after the race, with the prize money," Arcee offered.

"Let's check Google . . . aha!" Agent Fowler said. "Yep, there's one, count it, one Aston Martin dealership in New York." He lowered his phone and raised his eyebrows. "But get this—it's in New York City."

"Not upstate," June said. 

Bumblebee began to take more of an interest in the conversation. "He once told me he found street races by just driving around looking for them. He might try that."

"We'll break into teams," Optimus said, looking around the group. "Agent Fowler, Ultra Magnus, I ask that you locate General Bryce and ensure that he acts with proper restraint. June, Arcee, and Ratchet, you will seek out the car dealership in New York City in case Knock Out turns up there. Bumblebee, you will remain here to monitor the situation. The rest of us will search upstate New York—"

"WHAT?" Bumblebee's shriek reached pitches so high that it almost sounded like the electronic screeches he'd made before his voice box was repaired. "No! Optimus—no! I don't want to sit on my aft while everyone else is helping!"

"You will be helping by remaining here. Someone must be ready to activate the ground bridge at a moment's notice."

"Why can't Ratchet stay behind like usual?"

"Ratchet's sirens can quickly clear a path through traffic. A boon in a busy city," Optimus explained. "Have no fear, we will use every resource to locate Knock Out. Whether he's happy to be located or not."

"He'd be a lot happier to see _me_ than _you,"_ Bumblebee snapped.

Optimus hid his wince.

"Bumblebee!" Ratchet half-gasped, half-growled. Optimus silenced him with a small gesture.

"That is true," Optimus said levelly. "Out of all of us, you are closest to Knock Out. That is precisely why I am leaving you here. Out of all of us, you are the most likely to be able to convince him that the situation is dire and that he should return to base."

Bumblebee's big blue optics flickered in a blink. After a moment he said, "All right. I'll do it. And . . ." His optics lowered. "Sorry."

The Autobot leader just smiled, resting his hand on the smaller bot's shoulder for a moment. "While you monitor the situation from our base, the rest of us will be combing this area." He tapped a few buttons on the console; a portion of New York was highlighted in blue.

It did not include Rochester.

* * *

"The subject undergoes a noticeable shift in mass during transformation, so corner him as a car if you can," General Bryce said, pacing back and forth in front of his operatives. Behind him, a wireframe mock-up of Knock Out revolved slowly on a projection screen. "Remember, we want him intact, but we want him _down._ Get those kids out of the way and hit hard and fast. We've all seen the damage these robots can inflict."

The general's eyes narrowed slightly as he saw Agent Fowler slip into the back of the room. "All right," Bryce said abruptly. "You've all been briefed. Move out."

He walked over to Fowler, who was frowning at the animation still turning and turning on the screen. "Ah, Bill! How'd things go with the Autobots? I'm sure they want to get their little friends back before they get _hurt._ We're just about to fly our men—men and _women_ I should say these days, ha ha—out."

Bryce had planned out which routes his agents would search.

They did not include Rochester either.

* * *

"Oh, oh, oh! Take the off-ramp, Jack, there's something we gotta check out!" Miko almost turned around in her seat, pointing at something already behind them.

"Uh, not really my choice," the boy said, gesturing towards a steering wheel that was moving on its own.

"What's so enthralling that we need to get off the highway?" Knock Out said. "I want to get past this city before rush hour starts." He had just passed the sign, 'Welcome to Rochester'.

"Duuude, there's a Goodwill back there!"

"A what?"

"A thrift shop," Raf explained. "People donate used stuff to them, and they sell it."

"Yeah, we could pick up, like, clothes! And props!"

"Miko," Jack said, crossing his arms, "I think we have more important things to do than—aaand the car is taking the off-ramp."

"Color me intrigued. And your current ensemble _is_ lackluster, Jack."

"My 'ensemble' isn't lackluster, it's sensible!" He looked down at his monochrome shirt and worn jeans. Simple. Pragmatic. Comfortable.

"Boring," Knock Out said as he parked in front of the Goodwill, which had pumpkins painted on its plate-glass windows. "Remember who you're representing. Miko—make him fabulous."

"You got it, arch-nemesis!"

"But I don't want to be—" The rest of his complaint was lost as Miko pulled him out of the car, Raf tagging along behind them.

A little over an hour later, they were back. Jack looked shell-shocked, the other two looked cheerful. 

"Okay, my new mission in life? Bring Halloween to Japan." Miko staggered forward, unable to see around the stack of colorful clothing and accessories in her arms.

"You don't have Halloween over there?" Raf helped her load everything into the back of the Aston Martin as the trunk popped open of its own accord.

"Eh, we've got Obon in the summer, it's about ghosts and stuff, but it's not . . ." She paused, a hand on her hip. "It's not _crazy_ enough."

"I'm sure you make up for that," Jack muttered, arms tightly crossed. "For example, you're crazy if you think I'm wearing any of that."

"Whaaat? You're gonna look awesome!" Miko pushed a pair of rhinestone-studded dark glasses over his eyes, then looped a bright yellow feather boa around his neck. 

"Much better already," Knock Out said approvingly.

"You do look . . . brighter?" Raf said.

Jack just groaned.


	22. Chapter 22

Ultra Magnus was a large, intimidating bot, well-versed in looming.

Even if he had to crouch down and put his eye up to a window to do it.

"For the last time, Bill, you're going to accompany the Autobots and, er, assist them as they see fit.  That is an order!"  General Bryce kept flitting nervous glances at the massive blue eye staring in at him.  "Which I'm sure they'll appreciate."

"But what about the rest of Unit E?  We could help them out."  And keep them in line, Fowler thought.  "Ultra Magnus here is way more familiar with the bot in question, _and_ big enough to get Knock Out under control by just dragging him away by the ear!"

"In truth I would hesitate to grasp Knock Out by the audial, Agent Fowler, for fear of inadvertently crushing it beyond repair," Ultra Magnus said.  "But I am confident that taking a firm hold of his arm would be sufficient to stop him."

"That's . . . great."  Bryce was staring at that enormous, unblinking eye again, sweat gathering around his shirt collar.  "But it's not going to happen.  For one thing, the operatives assigned to the case have already left.  Headed for New York."

"Yeah, by plane," Fowler retorted.  "And no matter how fast they're goin', we can still get there sooner by ground bridge.  And if you have any problems with that, I'd be interested to hear 'em, 'cause it seems to me like the more people we have out there the better."

General Bryce made a little grumbling sound before saying, grudgingly, "You have a point.  And it would save time.  We could march our operatives straight through that bridge-thingie—"

"I regret to inform you, General, that the ground bridge is technically on the soil of the Cybertronian embassy, which may only be encroached upon with express permission.  We are willing to forgive your earlier transgressions, but our bylaws are quite clear on this subject."  The eye in the window never flickered or blinked.  "Fortunately it is a moot point in this case since the other Unit E operatives have, as you said, already left for New York via their own method of transportation."

"Of . . . course."  Bryce faltered.  "Well, then, I'll send you the coordinates of our rendezvous and we'll meet you there."  He turned back to Fowler, perhaps simply to avoid Magnus.  "You're dismissed, soldier."

"One moment, General Bryce."  Ultra Magnus' voice rumbled through the room.  "I would request your  supplemental material for study."

The General froze, glancing behind him but not actually turning around.  "I . . . don't quite understand you.  Supplemental material?"

"Yes.  As I watched your agents leaving the building, I noted that they each carried a binder—eight-point-five inches by eleven, I would guess—which many of them were studying intently.  I believe there is a pile of them on your desk."

"Oh, those."  For a minute Bryce looked hesitant, then he drew himself up, clearing his throat.  "Sorry, but it's off limit to outsiders.  Just like your bridge."

"I see.  An unfortunate yet understandable security measure."  Maybe it was a coincidence that Ultra Magnus waited for Bryce to smile triumphantly before adding, "Agent Fowler, please ensure that you have a copy of said binder before we depart.  You are authorized to receive it, I'm sure.  Just as I am sure you will not share the information therein with the Autobots, in the interest of your nation's security.  Unless, of course . . ."  The eye continued to burn through the window.  "It pertains to us and _our_ security."

General Bryce scowled.  But he handed Agent Fowler the binder.

* * *

Stephanie Taurino hadn't wanted a job.   Yes, she liked cars, in the sense that she enjoyed driving fast, expensive ones.  She did NOT like _selling_ them or _fixing_ them.  That was her mother's thing.  Only her parents' insistence that "any twenty-two year old living in our house is going to have a job" had motivated Stephanie to cover the front desk at Taurino Luxury Cars, dealer of McLarens, Aston Martins, and Mercedes for the Long Island area.

Things could be worse.  At least Stephanie was surrounded by shiny cars, and she had even  hired her own assistant, also known as her boyfriend, Michael.  Her parents knew his name and job title.  She was saving the "boyfriend" part as a surprise.

Today was turning out to be interesting, thanks to the crazy woman.

"So you're looking for a red Aston Martin? Well, we have this Volante convertible—"

"No, no, not a convertible, a . . ." The crazy lady leaned down to whisper something to her motorcycle, which she insisted on wheeling around the showroom even though Stephanie had offered to lock it up somewhere safe.  "A DBS V12.  With a roof.  And yellow tires.  I mean, rims."

Stephanie cocked her head.  "Well, that's . . . strangely specific."

"The thing is, I know someone who was, er, selling one and I thought maybe he sold it to you.  Within the past day or two."

"Don't think so, but you're free to look around."  Stephanie drifted back to the front desk, to watch the woman from a safe distance.  Michael entered, carrying a latte in each hand.

"Are the paramedics upgrading to a classier brand of locomotion, cupcake?" he asked, setting one of the lattes down in front of her.  "There's an ambulance parked out back."

"Probably a mental hospital, trying to track down a patient."  Stephanie flicked her fingers towards the customer, who was once again leaning low to whisper to the bike.

"Good heavens.  How long has she been doing that?"

"Ohhh, quite a while."

"Should we do something?  Call the police or someone?"

Stephanie sipped her coffee.  "Why?  Even crazy people can be rich."

* * *

"Are you fleshies hungry?"

"Well, we HAVE been begging you to stop for like a zillion miles, so ye-ah!" Miko snorted.

"What a horrible little liar you are, Miko." Knock Out's voice was a congenial purr.  "The last time I stopped, you said you didn't need any food."

"Um, well.  Last time you stopped by a piece of roadkill," Raf said.  "And that's not really food."

 _"Et tu,_ Raf?  It was a deer.  I happen to know that you fleshies eat them.  It's not my fault you're so picky."  Actually he knew very well that dead things found by the road were not normal human fare.  But the humans hadn't made a peep about making a pit stop after that.  Mission accomplished.

"So what's on the menu this time?" Jack crossed his arms.  "A coyote?  A skunk?"

"Burgers," Knock Out said smugly as he rolled down his window and pulled up to the menu board of a drive-thru.

"Really??" Raf's face split into a smile.

"Awesome!" Miko pumped her fist in the air.

"Oh no." Jack buried his face in his hands.  "No, no, _no._ Tell me it's not—"

"Welcome to K.O. Burger, where every patty's a knockout," came the voice from the speaker, sounding slightly staticky and utterly depressed.  "May I take your order?"

"Hmm, not _quite_ the chipper attitude I would hope for, but I'm sure you can give him some pointers, eh Jack?"  Never let it be said that Knock Out didn't have a sense of humor.

* * *

"Is your seatbelt secured, Agent Fowler?" 

"Sure is, U.M." 

"Be careful, you guys," Bumblebee said as he activated the ground bridge.  "And tell Knock Out to get his aft back here."

"We will return him to the base, I promise you that," Ultra Magnus said.  Judging from Bumblebee's expression in Magnus' side mirror, he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

Agent Fowler groaned as he went through the bridge; he'd never get used to that!  When his stomach stopped flip-flopping, he put his hands on the steering wheel to keep up appearances.  Beautiful fall foliage rustled on either side of the highway.  Soon the big rig pulled over, however, stopping at a rest stop.

"Weird place to meet up with the rest of Unit E," Fowler muttered.

"Indeed," Ultra Magnus said, turning off his engine.

Agent Fowler drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, then reached for the binder he'd snagged from Bryce.  Might as well read it while he waited.

* * *

As soon as they were through the drive-thru, Knock Out pulled into a parking spot, opened his doors, and unceremoniously dumped the children out.

"All right, kiddies, go refuel."

"I thought we were going to eat in the car," Raf ventured, picking his bag of fast food off the ground.

"You really think I'd allow that greasy, organic muck in my interior?  Think again."

"But—" Jack started, then sighed when Knock Out pointedly locked his doors.  "Come on, guys, let's eat inside the K.O. Burger." 

"Can you believe that guy?" Miko said, taking a burger and a side of fries out of the white paper bag with the fast food joint's logo stamped on it in red.

"At least there's more room to eat in here," Raf said, although he seemed almost as interested in adjusting the small headset he'd been building as he was in his food.

"I'm just glad for a chance to eat," Jack said.  "For a while I thought— _hey!"_   Through the window, he watched Knock Out back out of his parking space and drive out of the lot.

"Did he _ditch_ us?" Miko said, a fry halfway to her mouth.

"Wow.  This is so not cool," Jack said.

* * *

"I simply cannot understand how you can be so blase," the sports car said his attention focused on the jerry-rigged communication device on his dashboard.

"Knock Out, baby," the voice on the line said, whining with reverb, "it's not that I don't _care._   Rah-rah, go Cybertron, long live the homeland and all that.  But I'm running a business here.  I can't afford to—"

"Um, Knock Out?" A second voice came through.

"One moment please . . . _What?_   I'm _busy."_

"Sorry," Raf's voice crackled. "We were just wondering where you were?"

"Use your optics, I'm next door at the coffee place!"

"You mean the Starbucks?" another voice cut in.  "What are you doing over _there?_   Getting your tank filled with espresso or something?"

 _"No_ , Miko, I am taking advantage of their wireless datanet connection.  Now if you'll excuse me."  He cut off the second connection and returned his attention to his other caller.  "Sorry about that."

"No problemo!  Those were humans, right?  I know Autobots love the organics."

"I am _hardly_ an Autobot, Swindle.  As your continued operation should evidence."

"No, no, I get that," Swindle said smoothly.  "You're a 'Con through and through, Knock Out.  Cunning, devious, and above all . . . discreet."

"Your flattery would appear more genuine if it came with a discount.  This _is_ the future of our race we're talking about."

"And I'd _like_ to help you, but I've got a bottom line to think about, you know?  Gotta keep the yen rolling in."

"These will be the first newsparks in millions of years," Knock Out said.  "And if that doesn't warm your spark, think of them as future customers."

"Nice try, but the Cybertronian credit is a collapsed currency.  You and your Autobot friends will be bartering with nuts, bolts, and raw energon crystals for who knows how long."

"Speaking of my Autobot friends," Knock Out said thoughtfully, "I'll bet they would be thrilled to know that you're around.  Everyone loves an arms dealer, don't they?  And so conveniently located."

"Hey, I deal in a lot more than weapons."  Swindle sounded alarmed.  "And I never said where I was."

"You mentioned yen.  Hardly an intergalactic currency.  But very useful if you're on Earth."

Nervous laughter.  "Listen—"

"What's your alt mode again, Swindle?  You're a grounder, aren't you, but hardly a stylish one.  Oh yes, it's coming back to me—you're a Jeep.  If _I_ were looking for you—as I might if I were a group of Autobots surprised to learn of a Decepticon making a home on Earth— _I_ might look for the countries that use the yen and then check their military bases.  Very convenient in case any of your not-so-little friends decided to visit, hmm?  They'd all blend in quite nicely.  Except the space shuttle, of course."

"Knock Out—"

"Speaking of which:  I want a space shuttle.  And I want luxury cars and tank and fire trucks and _everything else_ on that list I sent you.  I'm sure I can count on your cooperation, yeees?"

"All right, all right!  You win.  You'll have your convoy of vehicles—and for a low, low price."

"For a low, low—!  _I don't believe you."_

"Knock Out, hot wheels, hey, liiisten.  My suppliers are only human, they don't _care_ about these things like we do, right?  They're going to want cash—yen, Euros, or dollars accepted—and my money's tied up in investments, you know?  The space shuttle alone is going to cost millions.  But if you can get the moolah, I can get the motorcade."

Well, truth to be told, Knock Out had expected something like this.  The mech _was_ named Swindle.  "I can get the money.  You start lining up those sales.  I want this finished up fast."

"Sure thing!  Of course, there's an expedite charge in cases like these—"

Knock Out growled, a low and ominous sound.

"—which I'll waive, just this once."

_"Good."_

"Only for you, K.O.!  Gotta hand it to you—you're still a 'Con's 'Con.  Ol' Megatron would be proud."

"Whatever," Knock Out snapped. "Goodbye, Swindle." He cut the transmission.

His windshield wipers flicked across his windscreen a few times in irritation; then his front seatbelts uncoiled and retracted in a small shrug.  So Swindle was an unpleasant person to deal with.  Big surprise.   He had other calls to make.

He sent a series of electronic pulses to the ungainly device on his dashboard—Raf may have been some sort of fleshie genius, but he had no sense of style—and dialed a number.  A New York number.

"You've reached Fosters Media Consultants, how may I direct your call?" a woman's voice asked crisply.

"Put me through to my agent."

"May I ask who's calling?"

"Swift.  Aston M. Swift."


	23. Chapter 23

 It was only 6 PM, but it got dark early in October. Optimus Prime's headlights were on, lighting a road plastered with wet autumn leaves. 

"Prime.  Fowler here."

"Speak, Agent Fowler."

"Would it surprise you to know that General Bryce's top secret binder contains top secret info on how to take down top secret alien robots?"

"I wish it did."  Why such an obvious action still brought a tiny prick of betrayal, he could not say.  No doubt Megatron, when he was still Megatronus, would have laughed and put it down to his gentle nature.  "I must ask—lethal methods?"

"Some of them, sir," Ultra Magnus' voice broke in.  "And even those meant merely to neutralize still carry the presumption that the subject will be removed to 'appropriate facilities' after a successful attack."

"Then we must be sure that there is no 'successful attack' on our medic," Optimus said, headlights flaring stronger.  "I shall speak with General Bryce.  Has he rendezvoused with you yet?"

Agent Fowler made a derisive noise, a sort of a snort.  "Unfortunately, that won't be possible.  We've been stood up."

"'Stood up'?"

"What Agent Fowler is trying to convey, Prime, is that we have neither seen any sign of Unit E, nor have we been able to ascertain their present location."

"Every time I call 'em trying to pump 'em for information, I get told it's 'classified,'" Fowler complained. "No one will put me through to Bryce. Guess he figures the less he hears, the less responsibility he has later."

"I see."  Another pang of betrayal left Optimus more sad than angry.  "Then join the search, please."

"Immediately, sir," Ultra Magnus said, starting his engine and pulling out of the rest stop.

"Thank you.  Both of you.  We have not been able to find any trace of Knock Out—"

"Prime, it's Arcee," a feminine voice crackled across the comm channel.  "Just caught police radio chatter about a red Aston Martin doing double the speed limit down the interstate.  Sound like anyone we know?"

"Agent Fowler, Ultra Magnus, standby."

* * *

 

"Speeding is easy, really," Knock Out said, whipping past a mobile home.  "You just make sure there aren't any cops around when you do it."

"Cops like the ones chasing us?" Raf quavered.

A brief blast of cold air came through the Aston Martin's air conditioning vents as he made a huffing sound.  "No system is _perfect."_   Knock Out adjusted his side mirror, eyeing the flashing lights behind him.  "Hm.  Persistent."

"You can outspeed them, K.O.!" Miko cheered him on.  Of all the kids, she was the only one genuinely enjoying herself.

"Of course I can, but I don't want them closing the road ahead of us or something _drastic_ like that.  Oh well, I suppose I'd better humor them and get this over with."  He put his blinker on and began to pull over.

"Wait!  What am I going to tell them?  _I'm in the driver's seat._ This is going to ruin my driving record!"

"Don't be such a worrywart, Jack," Miko said. "We're on an _adventure!"_

"Right.  Don't be such a whatever-she-said.  And don't hold my wheel so tightly."  Knock Out jerked his steering wheel sharply to the side not only ripping it from Jack's clenched fingers but also sending the car on an erratic path across the road.  Knock Out corrected his path easily enough, of course, but somehow the sirens sounded extra loud after that. 

"Oh great.  Just great," Jack moaned as Knock Out pulled over.  "Mom is gonna _kill me."_

"Oh, don't exaggerate," Knock Out said, annoyingly calm.  "I'm sure she'll settle for maiming you."

* * *

 

 _Spoiled rich kid,_ the police officer thought, looking down at the teenager in the seat of the Aston Martin.  But all he _said_ was: "License and registration."

The license was new enough to have glossy, unscuffed laminate.  Nevada.

"Okay 'Jack Darby'. Registration."

"Uh, yeah, sure, officer, the registration is . . ."  The kid looked around the interior.

"In the glove compartment?" the girl with the crazy hair suggested.  The glove compartment must have had an automated mechanism, because it snapped shut almost on her fingers when she tried to open it.  "Ow!  Hey!" She slapped the dashboard.

"Under the seat, maybe?"  The Darby kid looked. "Nope. Uh . . ."

"Step out of the car," the officer said.  He wanted to make the kid walk a straight line, if he could. _He_ recognized delaying tactics when he saw them.

* * *

 

Jack finally managed to convince the cop that he wasn't drunk or on drugs, just reckless.  It did not feel like much a victory, especially in light of the fact that Knock Out's registration paperwork was still missing—or, Jack suspected, nonexistent. 

Then there was the little matter of his license plate.

"What is this crap?" the officer said, looking at Knock Out's plain black and white license plate as though it offended him.  "What are you trying to pull?"

"I can explain," Jack said, looking at the license plate that had nothing but "JOFY 892" on it. No tabs, no _state,_ and was that even the right number of letters?  "See, this is a, erm, special car from . . . frooooom . . . "

"E-excuse me, officer?" Raf said, slipping out of the car where he'd been conferring with Miko.  "The reason this car doesn't have a real license plate is because it's a show model.  It's not supposed to go anywhere but a showroom.  But, um, Jack's uncle said we could took it out for a spin and I guess we got carried away."

"Good news, Jack!" Miko added, loud and over-acting.  "I-have-got-your-uncle-on-the-phone!  I-am-sure-he-can-straighten-this-whole-mess-out!" 

"Yeah right, I'm _sure,"_ the police officer said.  But he took the device Miko was holding out.  It that had been cobbled together from cell phone parts and resembled nothing more than a small microphone now.

"It's, um, a prototype," Raf said.  "Kind of a Bluetooth thing?"

"Uh huh."  The cop looked less impressed than ever.  "Hello?" he said in the device's general direction.

"He-llooo." Knock Out's deep voice rolled flawlessly from the device.  Miko casually sat sideways in the driver's seat, leaning her arm on the steering wheel to mask the fact that it was blinking in time to the microphone.

"I hope Jack hasn't landed himself in too much trouble," Knock Out continued. "I'm his uncle—his, ah . . . father's brother's cousin."

The kids exchanged despairing looks.  Maybe Knock Out caught it because he added, "Once removed," in a defensive tone.

"Well, Jack's 'father's brother's cousin, your nephew—or whatever— was caught going over a hundred miles an hour with _two_ minors in _your_ car, which has a bum license plate and no registration.   What do you say to that?"

"The boy will be _severely_ disciplined, of course, but in the meantime he does need to get the car back, doesn't he?  So pop him back behind the wheel , if you would."

  The officer was not amused.  "Listen, mister, I don't know who you think you are—"

"The name's A. M. Swift."

The cop's eyes bugged out.  _"The_ A. M. Swift?  The food guy?"

"Now really, officer.  Would I have mentioned it if the answer were 'no'?"

* * *

 

In a perfect world, justice would be served to everyone equally, regardless of their socioeconomic status.  Back in the real world, the red Aston Martin sped down the freeway, its driver let off with a warning and an admonishment to "be more careful, you don't wanna wreck your uncle's car, do you?"

"My father's brother's cousin's car, you mean," Jack muttered as soon as they were far enough from the police car that he could safely cross his arms and slump back in the seat.

"What are you fussing about now?" Knock Out asked, rather distractedly.  He was calculating how fast they'd need to go to reach New York City by the following day.

"Only that your father's _brother_ would be your uncle.  Your father's brother's cousin would be . . ." Jack threw his hands up in exasperation. "I don't even know what he'd be!"

"You have too many relationships.  Spark-split siblings were always enough for  _us."_

"Aw, calm down, Jack.  I thought K.O. was pretty smooth," Miko said.

"And we did get to test the transmitter," said Raf.  "It projected really well."

"You see, Jack?  A practical field run," Knock Out said, a smirk evident in his voice.  "You should be thanking me."

There were several sudden blats of the horn as Jack thumped his head against the steering column.

* * *

 

Officer McKay was sitting in his car, finishing up his report (which minimized the Darby kid's transgressions) and lying in wait for more speeders when a woman on a blue motorcycle with pink trim pulled up beside him.

"A red sports car with yellow  rims.  He was here.  Where'd he go?" she demanded. 

Something about her, perhaps the intensity of her stare, made the officer answer, "He, uh, he went that way—not too long ago—"

The woman swore, revved her bike, and roared off.  The weird thing was that McKay had never heard any of those swearwords before, and the way the woman kicked off did not quite match the way the motorcycle had straightened . . .

He shrugged and returned to his paperwork.

Five minutes later a convoy of assorted cars and trailer trucks zoomed by.  They were barely speeding (except the blue and white truck which was going _exactly_ the speed limit) so he didn't bother pursuing them.

Thirty minutes after that, a mass helicopters swarmed out of nowhere, circling ominously overhead as uniformed soldiers with strange weapons began pouring out of troop trucks.

It took a while before Officer McKay could be convinced to unlock his car and talk to them.  And by that time General Bryce was swearing too.

 


	24. Chapter 24

The frustrating thing about pursuing Knock Out, it turned out, was catching up with him.

Every time Smokescreen saw another car's tail lights up ahead he thought, _At last!_   But every time it turned out to be a nonsentient vehicle with a human driver.  It didn't help that it was dark as frag.  The moon was barely a sliver and the street lights were just brief flashes over his hood, more distracting than helpful.

"Optimus, can't Wheeljack and I scout farther ahead?" Smokescreen asked over his comm, tilting his side mirrors to catch sight of the Autobot leader some ways behind him. 

Wheeljack gave a rev of agreement.  "We're never gonna catch him at this rate."

"I understand your reasoning, but in the interest of safety, it is best if the two of you remain in visual contact with the rest of the team.  We are not the only ones looking for Knock Out," Optimus commed back.

"No kiddin'—take a look behind us!" Bulkhead interrupted.

"What's happening back there?  Run into a pack of wild glitch mice?" Despite his flippant tone, Wheeljack was swooping across the road like he was considering doing a U-turn.

"More like Unit E's about to ram our bumpers," Arcee said.

"Guys!" That was Bumblebee, comming from Ratchet's base.  "It _is_ Unit E!  They've got a convoy of armored—armored troop  transports, I think—"

"We can see them, Bumblebee," Ultra Magnus said, disapproval clear in his voice.  "They are breaking the speed limit _and_ blocking all the lanes behind us, in a flagrant display of disrespect for their own traffic laws."

"Uh, uh, okay, me and Wheeljack can outrun 'em!" Smokescreen said quickly.  "If we find Knock Out first—"

A loud thrumming sound filled the air.

"Also," Bumblebee said, "they have a helicopter."

"Well, _scrap."_

* * *

 

The helicopter swept up the highway.  Motorhomes, Volkswagen Beetles, dented old station wagons—each was ensnared in the yellow-white glare of its spotlight in turn.  In some cases the 'copter immediately dismissed the vehicle and moved on, other times it matched their speed for a while—particularly when the target was a sleek sports car or a burly semi truck.  Confused drivers swerved erratically, stopped dead, or tried to outrun the blinding light.  Eventually the helicopter allowed each of them escape.  It had not found its quarry.

Below, Unit E's convoy motored down the highway with surprising speed, horns blaring as they forced civilian vehicles onto the shoulder of the road.  A Unit E 'clean-up crew' followed, directing the drivers to turn around, making the excuses.  Big collision ahead.  Very serious.  Highway closed until further notice.

The heavily armored vehicles proceeded at a steady pace . . . until a red and blue semi came rumbling the wrong way down the highway, flanked by a green SUV and a blue semi with a hammer, of all things, strapped to its bed.

The red and blue truck warped and shifted into its bipedal robot form. 

"Stop," the robot commanded, audible even over the helicopter's rotors.  The other two vehicles screeched to a stop lengthwise across the road, blocking every lane.  The transformed robot began speaking and gesturing earnestly.

The helicopter didn't wait.  It passed over the roadblock to continue the hunt. 

It had not gone far when there was the sound of an explosion over the hill up ahead;  all the street lights fizzled and died.

The helicopter picked up speed.  Its spotlight briefly caught a glimpse of a white, red, and green sports car, but that was not the target—although more than likely the cause of the darkness, since it was driving away from a crater billowing with smoke and sparking with errant electricity.

There—up ahead—a sports car with its headlights turned off, just a silhouette with tail lights.  Then the tail lights flickered off and it became almost invisible, a dark car on a dark road.

The car kicked into overdrive and the pursuit began in earnest.   Dodging, swerving, nearly spinning out, the sports car evaded the spotlight.  The most the pilot could see was the light reflecting off its windows and chrome as it dodged away.

The helicopter swooped low, buzzing the car, trying to harry it off the road.  The car responded by all but diving down an off-ramp.  The 'copter followed in hot pursuit.

The new path was a narrow country road lined with trees;  the copter was forced to pull up.  Autumn leaves swirled in its wake as its landing skids brushed the treetops.  A glimpse of chrome through the leafy canopy showed that the quarry was still running. 

The helicopter pulled up as the road began twining up a massive, wooded hill.  Surely the car would slow down now.  It couldn't possibly navigate the winding roads in the dark with no headlights.

 It tried anyway.

And as it turned out, no, it couldn't.  The sports car proved it by careening off the road, catching air for an instant before tumbling end over end into the forest below.

The helicopter hovered blankly for a second before scanning the woods below, now searching more for a body than a fugitive.  Bodies, if you included the children.  Too bad.

Soon a line of headlights snaked off the highway and troops were pouring out of Unit E's armored trucks.

From the shadows, a pair of optics watched the humans.

Blue optics.

Smokescreen chuckled quietly and let himself phase completely into the ground.

* * *

 

"But _Knock Out!"_ Miko said for the millionth time.  "Explosions in the night?  And all this?"  She gestured towards the darkened highway, lit only by the Aston Martin's own headlights.  "We gotta go back and check it out!"

"First, there was only _one_ explosion.  Second, some inebriated human probably plowed into a power pole.  Third, you only want to stretch your fleshy legs.  I'm on to you," Knock Out said. 

"Yeah, well . . . we haven't had a break in forever."  Miko crossed her arms before looking over the back seat at Raf.  "You need to use the bathroom again, right?"

"Not really."

"Raaaaf, work with me here!"

"Besides," Knock Out pointed out, "if anyone should be complaining about staying in _one position_ all day, it's me."

That startled Miko into silence, but only for a second.  "Yeah, well, if we got out you could transform and stretch your legs too!"

Knock Out responded by snorting and increasing his speed.

Miko finally flopped back in her seat with a dramatic sigh, giving up the argument.  This should have filled Knock Out with triumph, but instead he repressed a sigh.  All he could think about was how these three humans were _sweating._   They were sweating on _him._  

And even as they tried to make themselves comfortable in the less than roomy interior of the Aston Martin, they simply couldn't keep quiet.

"Um, Miko?  Your seat is leaning back on my knees."

"Well, scoot over to the other side of the car.  Jack'll have to keep _his_ seat upright 'cause he's the 'driver'."

"Not with tinted windows I won't."

"That only works if you roll your window up, Jackrabbit.  So why don't you?  It's freezing."

"Excuse you, but they're all _my_ windows, fleshie, and down they'll stay."

"But Knock Ouuut!"

"Would you rather ride in the trunk?  Much warmer."

In the back seat, Raf smiled.  Well-accustomed to the hubbub of a large family, he leaned his head against his armrest and let the bickering serve as his lullaby.

He woke up some time later.  The windows were three-quarters closed and it felt late.   Raf sat up and looked around.  Miko snored, her cheek smooshed up against her window.  Jack's head was cradled by his shoulder belt and his mouth was hanging open in a lopsided way.

And the Aston Martin rolled on, his high-beams cut through the night as he ate up the miles.

Raf looked out the window.  The street lights were on again. "Hey, Knock Out?" he said quietly.

The rear view mirror shifted to look at him.

"Don't Cybertronians need sleep?"

"Yes, we sleep."

"What I meant was . . ."  Raf hesitated.  "Don't _you_ need sleep?"

"Not yet."

"Oh."  He paused.   "You know that thing I built?"

"Which thing?"

"The thing on your dashboard."

"Ah, yes, the communication array."

"Couldn't you use it to call the . . . the . . ."  Raf fumbled for a word other than 'Autobots', because that implied an exclusion.  ". . . the rest of the team?  Maybe that would be a good idea?"

The street lights flashed by. 

"It's unnecessary," Knock Out said finally.

"But they could bridge us straight to New York City—"

 _"Unnecessary,”_ Knock Out said emphatically.  "I work better alone." 

"But you're working with us."

"You don't count."

"Oh."

"Oh, don't _mope,_ it's unseemly. I mean it in the best possible way."

"Thanks, I guess."

"Mmm." He was silent a moment. "I'll call them after the press conference.  Or after my contact delivers the vehicles.  Yes, that makes more sense."

"I just think they could help," Raf mumbled.

"They had their chance," Knock Out said flatly. _  
_

Raf sighed and decided to change the subject.  "So . . . what killed the lights earlier, do y'think?"

Knock Out made a disinterested sound. "Whatever it was," he said, "It's not my problem."


	25. Chapter 25

An entire day in and out of upscale car dealerships and all June Darby had to show for it was a bad case of sticker shock and a splitting headache.  No one had heard anything about (or from) a well-polished Aston Martin with a novelty plate and custom rims.

 It was dark now, the car dealerships were all closed, and June and Ratchet had temporarily suspended the search for Knock Out in favor of a search for food. 

Food for June, at least.  Ratchet said his fuel was still "at acceptable levels." ("And if it comes to that, I'd rather refuel at the base, not crouched in a dirty alley or hiding in a parking garage," the medic grumbled.)

"I see a couple food places over there," June said, automatically flipping the ambulance's turn signal on.  Ratchet huffed in annoyance and turned it off; June gave an embarrassed laugh.  "Sorry. Force of habit."

"Hrrrm, well . . ." Ratchet let the statement hang as his steering wheel moved under the human's loosely curled fingers, completing the turn.  

The sky was dark, but the street they were driving down was well lit.  Bars and night clubs brightened the night with neon signs.  Cheap eateries had opportunistically sprung up along with them, knowing that the more people drank the more they ate.  All of them vied eagerly for the patronage of the crowds of twenty-somethings drifting down the sidewalks.

"Why are there so many taxis?" Ratchet groused, stuck behind one for what seemed like the hundredth time that day.   "And why aren't there any parking lots?"

"I'm guessing those two things are related," June said.  "Listen, just drop me off.  I'll call you when I'm done."

"Ehhh—all right.  Maybe this infernal traffic will have let up by then."

June doubted it, but she let Ratchet have his illusion and got out of the ambulance's driver's seat.  Fortunately only one person, a young woman with electric blue hair, noticed when Ratchet proceeded to drive off by himself.  The nurse ducked into the nearest eatery as the girl stared after the vehicle in confusion.

It wasn't until she reached the counter and heard an adolescent voice croak, "Hello-my-name-is-Tyrone-and-our-special-today-is-the-Uppercut-Combo-Meal" that she realized that she was in a KO Burger.  Oh, it was more upscale than the one in Jasper—the manager had decorated the place in neutral tones instead of kid-friendly primary colors—but the menu was the same.  And, just like in Jasper, a display next to the register advertised flimsy plastic cars as the latest toy prize in the Kiddie Kombatant meals.

"Combo Meal #1, please," June said without bothering to look at the menu.

"Thank-you-for-your-order-at-KO-Burger-where-every-patty-is-a-knockout," the teenager rattled off, pushing a tray towards her.

As June had suspected, Combo Meal #1 consisted of a burger flanked by limp french fries and an empty soda cup.  She set the tray down at a tiny table made of actual wood (or at least wood laminate) rather than the usual KO Burger plastic.  But upscale or not, the floor in front of the soda machine was sticky.  Some things never changed.

"I wonder . . ." June murmured as she sat down.  She set her cell phone on a napkin, pulled up her browser, and searched for 'street racing New York City'.  To her surprise, an article came up with the sensationalist title of  _'Illegal Street Racers Terrorizing NYC Neighborhoods'_. 

Fishing a piece of paper out of her purse, she jotted down the neighborhoods in question (Queens, mostly) and when the races took place (2 AM).  Hours from now.  Plenty of time to strategize with Ratchet.

"Good thing I'm used to working night shifts," she muttered, rereading the article as she ate.  The burger was marginally better than the ones from the K.O.B. in Jasper; the fries were exactly the same.

The smell was the same, too.  Oh, the struggles she'd gone through, trying to get the stink of fry grease out of Jack's clothes.  She'd gone through every detergent in the supermarket in turn, until the deceptively named ColorSafe UltraBright had bleached a whole load of Jack's clothes ultra-white.  He'd thrown a fit, she'd crossed her arms and used her Mom Voice, and when they both calmed down they mutually concluded it was high time he did his own laundry.

The lighter workload was a blessing, and she did her best to ignore the way she was suddenly hyper-aware of how old Jack was getting, how tall he was.  She was glad he was spreading his wings, but she dreaded the empty nest she saw in her future.

 _I am NOT going to get sentimental about fry-smells in a KO Burger,_  June told herself sternly.  It wasn't really about the fries, though.  Jack was out there somewhere, Raf and Miko too, and until she knew they were safe—

_In an emergency, the most important thing is to keep calm.  This is just a long, drawn-out emergency.  Trust in Jack.  He's not a child anymore.  He's intelligent and reliable.  He can do his own laundry._

She didn't physically jump when her phone rang, but her heart did give a little leap. 

 _Probably Ratchet,_  she rationalized, but she felt a swell of cautious hope as she picked it up.  An unfamiliar number.  Jack borrowing someone phone, maybe?

"Hello?" June said, unconsciously gripping the napkin in her free hand.

"Mrs. Darby?  This is General Bryce of Unit E."

The man was noxious but June would have put up with worse for the sake and safety of the kids.  "Have you found them?  Do you have news?"

"In a manner of speaking. I just received a report from one of our operatives, a helicopter pilot."  A pause.  "And may I just say I am _very_ sorry for your loss."

 

* * *

 

 

"Well, Agent Pierce?" Bryce said, unplugging the cord from his cell phone.

"She's in downtown Manhattan," answered the agent, a middle-aged woman wearing a neutral expression and a pair of headphones jacked into a laptop.

Bryce sighed regretfully.  "I suppose that will have to do.  It's just too bad we have so little to go on.  I thought if we rattled her . . ."

Agent Pierce continued disconnecting wires from the laptop at a steady place.  She measured success by her own personal metrics. She had successfully inserted the tracking virus into the video clip of the car plummeting off the hill and had gotten a fix on the Darby woman:  mission accomplished.

 "So they think he's headed for the Big Apple," Bryce mused.  He glanced down the slope.  A few flashlights were still visible, flashing across the brush and between the trees.  "Time to wrap it up here.  Just wish I knew how he got away."

 

* * *

 

 

"You didn't tell me because you didn't want to  _worry me?"_  June's voice rose as she paced from one end of the ambulance to the other, hard enough to make Ratchet wince internally.  At least he was spared June's wrath;  no one had told  _him_ anything either.

"I apologize, Nurse Darby," Optimus said over the comm.  "We did not expect you to find out about the incident."

June put her hands on her hips, not that anyone but Ratchet knew it. "Optimus, there's an Earth saying: when you find yourself in a hole, stop digging."

"I'm really sorry," Bumblebee broke in, sounding it.  "First we were busy trying to stall Unit E, and then we were so worried about Smokescreen—it took him forever to get back—"

"Hey,  _you_ try finding your way through the forest when you're using the Phase Shifter and your optics are only a couple inches off the ground.  It ain't easy, I'll tell you that."

"What were we supposed to think, you didn't reply when we commed!"

_"My mouth was underground."_

"Speaking of people not calling," June snapped.

"Nurse Darby, I am truly sorry," Prime said gravely.  "I know how concerned you are about Jack and the other children.  I should have made every attempt to keep you 'in the loop'."

June took a deep breath.  She couldn't stay angry at Optimus when he tried to use human idioms;  they always sounded misplaced, even when he used them correctly.  And she knew who she was  _really_ angry with. "Apology accepted, on one condition."

"What is that?"

"Make General Bryce regret everything about this."

The steel in Optimus' voice surprised her.  She was not the only one who found Bryce's actions unconscionable.  "I shall certainly endeavor to."

* * *

 

Knock Out was glad when the smallest human fell asleep again.  It gave him the illusion of being alone as he drove and drove and drove.  He had pushed himself into a state of overtiredness where it was easier to keep going than to drift off.  Once upon a time the field hospital had devoured his days and nights alike, but he had grown comfortable and lazy first on the  _Nemesis,_  now with the Autobots.

 It didn't matter.  He could still bring it when he needed to.

Night edged into dawn as he reached the city.

"This is it," he murmured.  "Countdown to zero."

 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Name change! Not for the story, for me. :)

"Wake up."

It was hard to determine exactly where Knock Out's voice came from when he was in vehicle mode (except that it was somewhere along the dashboard), and harder still when you were half-asleep.  Jack pulled his head off his shoulder belt and rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes.

"Where are we?" he said, trying to hide a yawn.  He blinked blearily at the towering buildings rolling by.  "Are we . . . there?"

"Obviously," Knock Out said in an annoyingly superior voice.  Not overly loud though.  Miko and Raf slept on.  "And I've booked us, or rather you, a hotel room."

"Thanks," Jack said automatically, before wondering how Knock Out had managed this. "What'd you do, steal someone's credit card number?"

"Never you mind.  Just be appreciative."

"I am, but isn't today the th-th-thing?" Jack's jaw ached as he yawned again.  "What time is it even?"

"Early," Knock Out said vaguely.  Gone were the days when Soundwave would conveniently beam him coordinates and maps and the local time.  But then, if Soundwave were still around none of this would be necessary.  In retrospect, he had relied far too much on Soundwave.  "The event isn't until noon, and the hotel is right next to the plaza.  So you three can nap for a while."

Jack eyeballed the dashboard suspiciously, then frowned at the rear view mirror, which Knock Out seemed to 'see' out of, for good measure.  "That's suspiciously nice of you."

"Am I being nice to _you?_ Or am I giving _myself_ a much needed break from your company?  These are deep philosophical questions that, alas, you will never know the answer to. The point _is_ you should put your hands on the steering wheel before we reach the place."

Jack loosely gripped the steering wheel as Knock Out had instructed. "Okay, but remember that vehicles don't usually talk."

"REALLY now?  Thank you so much for the tip.  I can see why the Autobots needed you around."

"You're hilarious," Jack grumbled.

"I'm a mech of many talents, yes.  Now wake the others.  _You_ aren't going to be talking to the hotel staff either."

"Huh?  Why not?"

"Because you're a rich eccentric and talking to peons is beneath you."

"You've _got_ to be kidding me."

Knock Out currently didn't have a mouth, yet still managed to give the impression that he was smirking.  "Your clothes are in the trunk, Mr. Swift."

* * *

 

Sure, Knock Out had threatened to dump him on the tender mercies of the Autobots, but Swindle was an optimistic bot and had soon began to view it as an opportunity to make a profit.  Knock Out was his favorite kind of customer—impulsive, nonviolent (relatively speaking), and desperate.  The business-mech had nothing but smiles when Knock Out's voice lit up his comm line again, even though the sports car sounded irritable.

"Swindle, I _thought_ you said you'd book me a top hotel."

"And I did, Knock Out, I did!  Five stars, cable TV, a luxurious pool—"

"Please explain, then, why I'm drinking mid-grade in a filthy concrete parking garage."

"Because you didn't bring high grade?  Ha ha, jokes!  Laugh with me!"

"Ha ha, the ceiling is so low I can't stand up.  Ha ha, I'm sitting in filth.  Ha ha, I'm not paying for this."

"Whoa, hey, let's not talk crazy.  You know how humans are, Knock Out.  No consideration for vehicles—sentient or otherwise."  Personally, Swindle found humans very pleasant, which was to say, profitable, to work with; he even employed a few.  But the species made a convenient scapegoat.  "If there'd been a hotel with rooms for someone twenty-odd feet tall I'd have booked you there in a spark-turn, but what can I do?"

Knock Out grumbled under his breath, but let it go.  "Did you arrange everything for tomorrow?  I mean—ugh—for today?"

"Sure did, K.O.!  I had my people get in touch with your people—it's going to be the event of the century!"  Actually it had taken a lot of exaggeration and bribery to generate the kind of interest Knock Out expected, which was a full media circus.  It was an innocent kind of narcissism that Swindle found charming—the idea that _of course_ the entire city would be agog over Knock Out's business dealings instead of relegating it to business page of the newspaper that no one really read.

Swindle could have taken care of everything behind closed doors, but Knock Out was the customer and the customer was always right; who was he to correct Knock Out's expectations?  Besides, the bigger the spectacle, the easier it was to find new excuses to bill Knock Out, skimming off a little profit for his trouble.  Media circus?  Swindle would have hired tightrope walkers and acrobats if he thought it would go over well with the Aston Martin.

The only thing that made Swindle uneasy was that Knock Out wouldn't have any way of paying him if things went awry.

"Speaking of the press conference, Knock Out, you went over things with the Darby boy, right?"

"Hm?" Knock Out sounded tired. There was a scraping sound, metal shifting against concrete, as he repositioned himself.  "Oh—the human.  Yes, yes. He knows the basics."

This vague reassurance did little to comfort Swindle.  "And you practiced your delivery and such?"

"Yes, Swindle.  As I _rocketed_ down the highway, I made certain to divert my attention _away_ from the road for some light play-acting. As though I could hear myself speak over those three anyway."

"Hey, I'm just trying to help!  A ventriloquist is only as good as his dummy."

"I don't need help.  Just sleep."

"Well, don't sleep through your cue."

"Of course I won't."  The sound of transformation came over the line as Knock Out shifted back to vehicle mode.  "Don't _you_ forget to procure those vehicles."

"I can only do so much without money, hot wheels.  Once I get the cash, I can get the goods, you know?"  Swindle already _had_ the goods, paid for out of his private funds.  Except the space shuttle.  For _that,_ he would wait to see if Knock Out's credits were as good as his promises.  "Okey-dokey, K.O., sleep tight and don't let the scraplets bite."

"If there are scraplets in this place," Knock Out yawned, "I'm running the manager off the road."

* * *

 

"No, but seriously, how did he afford this place?"

 _"Ugh."_ A pillow was flung across the room. "Good _night,_ Jack."

* * *

 

Unit E couldn't just storm into New York City en masse, as much as General Bryce would have liked to.  The bulk of the force was left to linger along the highway.  He sent in a swarm of agents—embarrassingly but effectively—on bicycles.  Unit E agents in Jeeps were also ordered to check the local car dealerships for rogue Aston Martins.

The irony would not have been lost on June and Ratchet, if they'd known about it.

(The irony was  _entirely_ lost on the dealers the next morning, when they discovered they'd been broken into after hours.)

The agents didn't find the Autobot's pet Decepticon, but they did stumble across Ratchet as he and June searched for the elusive street racers of New York City.

"Don't bother tailing him," Bryce said over the phone.  "Just get men up on the buildings and watch him."

"Which buildings, sir?"

"Every building!  Whatever's around there! I want agents staring down from every rooftop!  Don't let them out of your sight!  They'll either rendezvous with him or find him for us."

"Yessir."  Figures in black spidered their way up sleeping brownstone apartment buildings.  Unaware, the white ambulance rolled on.

* * *

 

"Well, if you ask me," Smokescreen said, although no one had, "he went to the Big—"  He paused, glancing around the group for help.

"The Big Apple," Ultra Magnus said in the tone of one who has suffered much and deeply.  "Possibly, Smokescreen, possibly."

"I mean, we haven't found Knock Out on any of the side roads, so where else could he be?"

"He could be in the woods, behind a building, in a garage . . ." Bulkhead said, listing off the possibilities on his fingers.  "Sure, he's flashy, but small bots can be real sneaky."

_"Ahem."_

" . . . sorry, Arcee."

"Still, Smokescreen has a point," Optimus said. "It would not hurt to check."

* * *

 

New York was the City That Never Sleeps, but only when viewed collectively.

Knock Out slept.

The children slept.

The Unit E agents slept, in shifts.

Ratchet slept, and the human woman curled up on his floor slept also. 

He and June had finally given up their search for the street racing scene. Perhaps there were no races planned for that night or perhaps the racing enthusiasts were savvy enough to notice and avoid the ambulance trundling around on their turf. At any rate, they'd found nothing. Ratchet had pulled into an empty parking space and gone into recharge.

He took no notice of the white paper bag that had tipped sideways on his floor, sending shiny ketchup packets and a scattering of french fries sprawling over a paper scribbled with notes like  _No activity on 39th St_ and  _Queens Blvd - no._  It was Jack Darby's paystub for his summer job, picked up by June when she frantically searched her son's room, and how appropriate a paper from K.O. Burger was now becoming transparent and greasy under a limp side of fries.

The attached paycheck had long ago been torn off and cashed. Otherwise June might have seen the signature—printed on rather than actually signed by a pen, of course, but nevertheless an impressive collection of loops that certainly  _imitated_ a real signature. K.O. Burger prided itself on giving the illusion of the human touch.

Quite the illusion it was. Every time Knock Out drove by a franchise he chuckled, knowing the underlings were cashing checks from Aston M. Swift.


End file.
